Fishing off the Roof
by Warriora
Summary: Harry Potter is selfless, courageous, and stubbornly Gryffindor. Christopher Halliwell is mysterious, sarcastic, morally lost, and constantly hunted by his older brother. When Dumbledore drags Chris to Hogwarts, two magical worlds, and wars, collide.
1. Of Potatoes and Ice

**Disclaimer: I own neither Charmed nor Harry Potter. I am merely playing with the ideas of their existence. I'll have them back to their owners when I'm done... Hopefully not too worse for the wear.**

**Prologue:**

Christopher Halliwell's dreams were disturbing and distressful, as usual, but this time something outside his dream world pulled him back into the realm of the waking before the heat of it could really fire up.

The sixteen year old snapped awake and was immediately met with scarlet snake eyes staring into his own, not two inches from his face.

He jumped backwards in shock, exclaiming, _"Oh my God!" _before he could stop himself.

The man with the slit scarlet eyes straightened, a slight smirk playing on his lips. Without a word, he turned and walked away from Chris' bed, going into the living room and giving the still surprised teen time to catch his breath.

When at last the initial shock wore off, Chris sighed and closed his eyes, once again thanking his older brother for putting him in this oh-so comfortable situation. _Well_, he thought absently as he finally managed to pull himself together, _at least I'm not the only one suffering. Dear Tommy must be getting pre…tty damn frustrated, too, by now…_

He rolled out of the bed, too lazy to stand, and hit the floor painfully. Groaning and wondering at his own intelligence, Chris hauled himself to his feet, rubbing his now thoroughly bruised shoulder. In a familiar moment of spite, the teen called into the silent living room, "Don't worry about me! That loud thump was nothing! I'm _perfectly _fine!"

There was no answer… not like he'd really expected there to be. Chris merely rolled his eyes again, strolled over to his bedroom door, shut it, walked back over to his closet, and pulled out some clothes to change into.

Wyatt had locked him in this wing of his extensive mansion with 'Tom Riddle' as either punishment for assisting the Resistance, or in an attempt to 'turn' him; he wasn't sure. Maybe both. He could also only guess at whether Riddle had done something to piss the Source off, too, because the man didn't seem overly fond of Chris' company, either. The only difference between Riddle and Chris' situation, however, was that Riddle was allowed to come and go as he pleased. That had been a day ago. Within that period, Chris had attempted to escape three times only to be brought back by either Riddle or Wyatt himself.

Once again, Chris sighed and walked out into the living room where Riddle was doing… some sort of paperwork. Maybe tracing out a map or plan or something… The man shot him a cold glance upon his entering before returning to his parchment. Chris made a face, choosing not to reply, and opened the 'front door' where a demon was standing guard. He was starting to formulate a small plan, mostly out of boredom rather than a continued plot to escape.

The demon looked up and hastily bowed in recognition of the Source's little brother. "What may I do for you, Lord Christopher?" the guard asked respectfully, more than a little nervous. Chris had made quite a reputation for himself with his brother's subjects.

"Besides get out of my way and let me go?" Chris retorted, and didn't wait for the now-even-more-uncomfortable demon's response. "I want five raw potatoes and a black marker. Thank you." He shut the door before the demon had time to voice its confusion.

Riddle glanced up, eyes narrowed slightly. Apparently he had heard the request.

Chris took satisfaction in ignoring that and plonked himself down on the sofa beside Riddle's. For an instant, he held out his hand for the TV remote before remembering his telekinesis, along with all his other powers, was bound. He rolled his eyes, got up, snatched it off the coffee table, and sat back down before turning the television on. Riddle was still staring at him.

"You're watching television?" the wizard hissed incredulously.

"No shit, Sherlock," came the sarcastic, easy reply. When the evil one continued staring at him, he flipped the channel and elaborated, "What, between leading a rebellion against you and your boss, and going on many a hot date, I never had time before. Now I have plenty."

Chris got the feeling Riddle rolled his eyes, but didn't look up to make sure. Only moments later there was a knock on the door.

"COME IN!" Chris yelled, fighting back a smirk at Riddle's death glare in his direction. Wow, he was glad Wyatt had forbidden the wizard to kill him. Behind some of Riddle's glares, Chris was sure the man was plotting his ultimate, agonizing murder.

The demon guard hesitantly made his way in and handed the supplies to the young Halliwell before bowing his way out of the room. Chris beamed, took the permanent marker, and drew smiley faces on the potatoes. On the backs, he wrote rather ordinary names until he came to the last one. He held it up thoughtfully, then remarked, "I think this one looks like a Tom. Tom's a pretty common name, don't you think? And randomly selecting a last name, I'm going to say Riddle… Yeah, that sounds right…"

Riddle merely continued to stare at him with an unreadable expression. Chris didn't wait for his response and scrawled 'TOM RIDDLE' on the back of the spud. He beamed. "Mr. Evil Overlord, meet my new bestest friends: Bob, Jane, Bill, John, and Tom."

A few days after naming his potatoes and talking to/treating them like real people, Chris came walking out of the kitchen, a few freshly fried French fries in one hand and four potatoes in the other arm. He sat down in front of the coffee table in the living room and lined the four spuds up on it as Riddle observed him calculatingly. About a week and they had gotten no further in their 'relationship'.

Chris moved so that he was sitting on the floor beside his potato friends, popped a fry in his mouth, and flipped on the TV.

After a moment, Riddle asked inexpressively, "What did you do with my potato?"

Chris feigned slight confusion and queried, "What-- you mean Tom?" He looked down at the last remaining fry in his hand and looked back up at Riddle, blinking innocently. "He just didn't belong," Chris explained, still giving Riddle a wide-eyed innocent look, and plopped it in his mouth then turned back to the television. "And no, Jane, I'm not buying that lipstick for you, so you can just forget it," he added to the only female potato as a commercial for Glitterbug Lipstick came on.

There was a moment of partially stunned silence on Riddle's end when suddenly there came sounds of yelling, then fighting from the floor below.

Chris rolled his eyes and muttered, "About time."

Riddle's eyes narrowed. They had established long ago that Riddle's strange branch of telepathy could, in fact, hold a candle to Chris' blocking abilities, but still wasn't _quite_ enough to gain the upper hand in a mental battle. The man had to resort to demanding in a dangerously quiet tone, "What is that?"

Chris smirked and replied evenly, "You know, you keep _hinting _that my Resistance is going to fail, and that we're no good, but you really have no idea what they're-- _we're_-- capable of. I think you'd find yourself genuinely surprised."

Voldemort instantly got the oh-so subtle hint and rose to his feet. With a cold backwards glance, the man swept from the room, slamming the door securely shut behind him.

Chris rolled his eyes and suppressed a laugh. "What a loser," he commented to himself and hauled himself to his feet using the coffee table. He strode over to the window and looked out to find the three remaining members of FU1 waiting for him on the lawn, all with crossed arms and satisfied smirks. He grinned, opened the window, and jumped out. He landed almost cat-like from the second story jump and was walking towards them without so much as a pause.

"The guards?" he asked, so pleased to see them he couldn't help but let it shine clearly on his face.

"Well, apparently there exists tension between some of the Death Eaters guarding the perimeter and some guarding entrance," answered Joden with familiar mischievous twinkle in his eyes, though something in his smile was forced. Something was always forced in his smile ever since Paris… ever since a couple of months ago. "Wasn't exactly hard to spark a few tempers and blame it on the others. Which brings us to the major point that--"

"We should hurry up and be out as soon as possible," finished Chris, catching his drift easily and letting his teammates lead him to where the jet was hidden (orbing was too traceable). Within only a matter of seconds, they were gone.

It was only a day later that Chris was captured (again) by Tom Riddle, but this time Wyatt had decided putting the two together in living quarters wasn't the way to turn 'Young Lord Christopher'. He went with a different, far worse strategy.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

**One week later:**

As discussion concerning Dumbledore's blackened, dead hand died down, the Headmaster continued his beginning of term speech.

"We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn"-- Slughorn stood up, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, his big waistcoat belly casting the table below into shadow-- "is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master."

"Potions?"

"_Potions?"_

The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered whether they had heard right.

"Potions?" said Ron and Hermione together, turning to stare at Harry. "But you said--"

"Professor Snape, meanwhile," said Dumbledore, raising his voice so that it carried over all the muttering, "will be taking over the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

"No!" said Harry so loudly that many heads turned in his direction. He did not care; he was staring up at the staff table, incensed. How could Snape be given the Defense Against the Dark Arts job after all this time? Hadn't it been widely known for years that Dumbledore did not trust him to do it?

"But Harry, you said that Slughorn was going to be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts!" said Hermione.

"I thought he was!" said Harry, racking his brains to remember when Dumbledore had told him this, but now he came to think of it, he was unable to recall Dumbledore ever telling him what Slughorn would be teaching.

Snape, who was sitting on Dumbledore's right, did not stand up at the mention of his name; he merely raised a hand in lazy acknowledgement of the applause from the Slytherin table, yet Harry was sure he could detect a look of triumph on the features he loathed so much. And then…

"What the-- is that someone sitting on Dumbledore's other side?" he asked, brow furrowing as he studied the slightly larger gap between Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall than usual.

"Uh, _McGonagall_," replied Ron in a 'duh' voice. Harry made to retort, but--

"No, I think Harry's right," interrupted Hermione, also squinting at the gap. There appeared to be shadows gathered between the two professors, despite the lighting, and, now that they looked, they also noticed a plate that did not seem to belong to either Dumbledore or McGonagall.

"Who is it?" asked Ron after the moment it took him to see what they were talking about. He was craning his neck conspicuously to see better, but the other students had erupted into their own conversations and paid no mind.

"I don't know," said Hermione with a frown. "I can't even see if it's a boy or girl. And all the other teachers are already there…"

Before the trio could get further in the investigation, Dumbledore cleared his throat, signaling his desire for silence. As soon as it was ensured, he continued, "Now, as everybody in this Hall knows, Lord Voldemort and his followers are once more at large and gaining in strength."

A glint of silver caught Harry's eye and he glanced sideways to see Malfoy making his fork hover in midair with his wand, as though he found the headmaster's words unworthy of his attention. Dumbledore continued to speak, but Harry found his attention drifting between Malfoy and the mysterious shadowed space, leaving no room in his mind for the headmaster's warnings about dangerous, dark times. Harry was actually beginning to wonder if anyone else knew the space was there, when the deafening scraping noise of benches being pushed back signified the release of the students and Dumbledore sat back down, turned to the space, and spoke to it.

Eager to stay and see if the shadowed person would move into view, and not at all eager to leave with the gawping crowd who had no greater wish than to see 'the Chosen One', Harry lagged behind under the pretense of retying the lace of his shoe. While Hermione took off to fulfill her responsibility of shepherding the first years, Ron hung back with him.

"You didn't touch your meal," stated Dumbledore to the shadow, pleasantly reproving.

There was no response, except to shift slightly so that Harry caught a glimpse of white hair. Medium length male-styled white hair.

The pause expanded until Harry was having a very difficult time making his shoe-tying excuse still believable. He added (for good measure) wiping his nose, scratching his cheek, brushing a speck of dust off his trainers… He even feigned catching the laces on a protruding corner as he headed away, therein undoing the bow again before Dumbledore spoke once more.

"Seeing as you were arguing quite ardently before, I don't think you can convince me you're a mute, now."

"Actually, I was just ignoring you," came the iciest response Harry had ever heard anyone use while addressing Dumbledore. He actually forgot he was trying his shoe and stopped to stare.

"Your manners never cease to amaze," commented Dumbledore pleasantly without skipping a beat.

"And your amiability has never been so welcome," the stranger, whom Harry could now identify as being around his own age, retorted, seemingly bored.

"Ah, amiability. What a good word."

There was a pause, and then, "…Merely appropriate."

"Well, at the very least, I'm glad you see me that way," said Dumbledore, eyes clearly twinkling gently.

There was another pause, and then a cold, "Amiability isn't a characteristic I'm overly fond of."

"Then perhaps I should have Professor Snape try and convince you to remain," responded the headmaster lightly, taking a sip from his goblet.

At this, the stranger leaned forward so that his visage was in the light and Harry could see him clearly. At first, the boy-who-lived was taken aback. The stranger _did _look sixteen, maybe seventeen, only he had pure, shock white bangs outlining his smoothly angular face while the rest of his med-length hair was dark brown. His vibrant green eyes flashed almost dangerously.

"Look," the stranger said in a voice sharper than a razor, "you might as well stop wasting your time and effort on me 'cause there is no way you're going to convince me to stay. You'll just have to keep me caged in this… _cage_… for the rest of the year, and quite frankly, I don't think either of us would enjoy that very much."

"We've had this conversation already, Mr. Halliwell," Dumbledore replied almost… jadedly. Harry wondered how long the two had been arguing about this. He didn't have long to speculate, however, for at that moment Professor McGonagall appeared at his and Ron's shoulders.

"Misters Potter and Weasley, I trust you have not forgotten the way to the Gryffindor tower over the summer holidays?"

"Oh, no, Professor," said Harry immediately, feeling a blush begin to creep up his neck. "I was just--" He motioned wordlessly at his perfectly laced trainer, unable to string together a coherent sentence, he was so flustered. Before McGonagall's eyebrows could arch any higher, he grabbed Ron's arm and hurried them both out, intending to put as much distance between himself and the witness to his eavesdropping as possible.

…

**(In Dumbledore's office)**

Chris Halliwell could recall having worse weeks, but this one was definitely the most untimely. For the past six days, he had been enduring the torture of some 'wizard' who claimed to be a follower of Tom Riddle, whom was referred to by the 'Death Eater' as the 'Dark Lord'. Yeah, like that was a new one. _Completely_ original thinker, that Tommy. And only yesterday had his Resistance team once more come to his rescue, and only fifteen minutes after returning to the base and getting healed up had he then been summoned by yet _another _wizard. This latest wizard claimed to be the headmaster of some witchcraft and wizardry school-- a school that, he said, the law _required_ he attend.

That made no sense to Chris at all, seeing as he was legally considered dead, anyway. Moreover, what could the government do? Force him into a classroom and _make_ him learn? And then, besides all the details, it was war in his country! A war where he was needed, where people looked up to him and put their lives in his hands, put their lives under his command! What did that Dumbley dude expect? For him to just drop everything, tell his brother (the Source of all Evil) 'Hey, hold on a minute while I go get my magical education because I'm still legally a minor and have no rights'? It was ridiculous! Before he could argue his point thoroughly, though, the old wizard had trapped him in a very familiar crystal cage and informed him he would be attending the magnificent start-of-term feast whether he liked it or not.

"I did no such thing," came the by now familiar voice, interrupting his thoughts.

Chris' head snapped up to see the twinkling blue eyes of the headmaster watching him rather pleasantly. He instantly felt his insides harden with rage and was hard put to keep his powers from throwing the old man clear across the room. Instead, he refortified the mental barriers guarding his thoughts and emotions carefully, then responded in his trademark stony voice, "I'd appreciate it if you stayed out of my mind, thank you."

"I do apologize," Dumbledore said in what was clearly supposed to be a sincere voice. Chris would have believed him if he weren't such an exhaustive empath. "I must admit myself just a tad curious about what was going on in there. An old man's self-restraint is not what it once was."

"You can only use senility as an excuse so many times…" Chris warned through scarcely concealed gritted teeth. He was sure using it every five minutes into conversation was overdoing it… just a bit. "How long have you been _watching_ me?" he added, putting delicate stress on the word 'watching,' implying that he really meant 'spying on me and sifting through my thoughts at your leisure.'

Dumbledore seemed to get the hint, for Chris felt a slight-- very slight-- pang of regret. He didn't know if the minute trace of emotion was because the man really didn't feel much of it, or because he just had good mental defenses. It was too early in knowing him to tell.

"Not long; not long at all, my dear child," replied the headmaster lightly. "I ended the beginning-of-term staff meeting only moments ago. Now it is time for another discussion between _us_."

"Nothing to discuss," Chris replied somewhat like a moody, stubborn child. He instantly blushed and wished he could have stopped to collect his impassive façade before he'd responded. Great impression he was making, here…

"I beg to differ," said Dumbledore in that same pleasant voice.

Once more, Chris couldn't stop himself from retorting. "You don't have to _beg_. I think you're allowed different opinions in free countries. Of course, I could be wrong…"

The old man smiled faintly. At Chris' narrow glance in his direction, he said by way of an explanation, "I merely thought you should know I do not have a lot of sarcasm or wisecracks directed at me these days."

"I must be like a breath of fresh air then, huh?" Chris replied evenly, but with a good measure of acid.

"Indeed," said the headmaster with a jesting twinkle in his eyes.

Chris just rolled his eyes. The bantering was no longer amusing, and hadn't been for a while. All he could think about was the Resistance. Wyatt had to be furious, had to know that he was gone by now, and the Source's retribution would not wait forever. Wouldn't even wait for long… Chris had already been gone for hours… there could have been an attack on the Resistance; they could have already lost by now. Anything could happen in minutes, let alone hours… He had to get back… But whatever school this was, it was powerful and had some damn powerful enchantments on it, meaning he couldn't orb, flame, or _anything_. He had a sneaking suspicion that the only person who could lift those enchantments was sitting in front of him, right behind that rather handsome mahogany desk.

He sighed. If there was no way of getting out without letting the man get whatever his problem was off his chest, he might as well get it over with sooner rather than later. "Look," Chris stated in a cold, businesslike voice. "Can you just say whatever you're required to say and then leave me alone? I don't exactly have a lot of time to waste."

Chris was relieved to see the man's continuously chirpy front finally change into a more somber one. Dumbledore sighed softly and laced his fingers together on his desk. At length, he looked from them back up to Chris. "Mr. Halliwell," he began with a faint note of sorrow, "I understand the situation you are in with the Resistance and the war in America. I _do_," he added a bit more sharply at Chris' hardly concealed scoff of disbelief. "But you need to understand where I'm coming from. The law requires all underage magical persons to learn the craft unless specifically ordered not to by their legal guardian. Seeing as you have none… there is no way around your attending this school."

"You want to talk legal?" Chris demanded, leaning forward slightly in his chair that was surrounded by crystals, his green eyes blazing. "I'm legally _dead_, so what can the government do? I don't think it's the law to require a dead person to attend school, even if he is underage."

Dumbledore did not respond immediately, but looked down at his carefully laced fingers. He seemed to be thinking of how to word what he needed to say, or so it appeared to Chris. At length, the older man stated slowly, "Mr. Halliwell, I do not like the position you are in. You have no adult in your life, from what I've seen, and you have a world leaning on you to lead them. _You are not ready for that._ Now, I'm not asking you to abandon everything, everyone, to come here. I'm just asking you to take a _break_. You only have eight months before you are legally an adult and can leave. Eight months away from the immediate pressures of war, eight months for rest and rejuvenation. Maybe… in those eight months… you might actually learn something, too."

Chris stared at him, mind spinning. His first thought was, 'Hell no.' But… that hadn't worked to any gain whatsoever earlier that day when he'd first been summoned. This man was firm in his belief that Chris should stay. Maybe… maybe it wouldn't be so bad, coming here and escaping all the stress of war. God knows he'd felt enough… Trying not to get on his brother's bad side and still trying to work with the Resistance. He was so tired, so mentally and physically exhausted… He really _did_ need a break.

_But the Resistance_-- They _needed_ him. They would lose to Wyatt and Riddle without him… He knew that for a fact, because even with him, they were getting their butts kicked almost continuously. If he were to just up and leave, they wouldn't stand a ghost of a chance.

Taking a deep breath, he forced the words to sound as though they had conviction as they came out of his mouth. "No. I'm not staying. I wouldn't expect you to understand all the reasons why, but there's no way I'm just abandoning everything I've been working so hard with. No way."

"Look, Christopher," said Dumbledore in a voice that took the witch-lighter by surprise. The headmaster had abandoned all formal pretenses and was squaring him a look that spoke of frankness. "There is no chance of you not attending this school. I will not just let you leave and get yourself killed. I knew your Aunt Paige and I know she would _still_ skin me alive if I didn't do everything in my power to keep you safe, so, the way I see it, you have two choices. You can either go through classes by choice and attempt civility to the other students, or you can stay in my office, in this crystal cage, acting hostile until you are seventeen and I no longer have the authority to hold you. There is nothing else. Now, what do you choose?"

Once again, Chris found himself unable to do anything but stare at the old man. Surely he was kidding…?

An empathic sweep showed that the headmaster was not, in fact, kidding. At all.

Before Chris could really start staring again, he collected himself and was able to run through the situation rationally. He knew he wouldn't be able to orb out of this place without the old man's help. Escape, therefore, was not an option. And Dumbledore did not look like he was bluffing when he said he'd keep him in the cage for eight months. So, that really left only one option.

Hating himself for it, but inwardly promising that he'd find a way out of this, Chris asked unenthusiastically,

"Would I have to sleep in the dorms with everyone else?"

Dumbledore smiled, his clear blue eyes twinkling brightly once more. "But of course. Where is your school spirit?"

"Cowering behind my unresolved hostility, of course," came the cold response. Then Chris remembered the beginning of the feast. The sorting… He groaned silently. "Would I have to get sorted, too?"

Dumbledore drew his wand and Chris couldn't stop himself from flinching as his mind raced backwards in time. _Strange, Latin based words, pain… a lot of pain… Riddle and his followers… outward defiance, inward terror… so much pain…_

"Christopher?" Dumbledore's voice broke through his flash back, sounding concerned.

Chris' eyes shot back to Dumbledore as a door slammed shut within them. He forced himself not to look at the wand held in the wizard's hand, but instead at the sorting hat that had apparently been conjured, summoned, or whatever. He was not going to think about… what had happened. Especially not while this man who obviously knew how to delve into thoughts was in the room. He could suppress those memories just like all the other similar ones. He just had to _stop thinking about it._

Without answering the headmaster's querying, concerned gaze, Chris gingerly lifted the hat from the desk and just as gingerly placed it on his head.

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**Please review.**


	2. Of Microwaves and Anger Issues

_A/N: Forget __**Fishy Chrissy **__ever happened. His history will be very similar, but there will be very important, though seemingly small differences, so just follow this like it stands alone. Takes place in the future, since Stoneage Woman is the only one brilliant enough to figure out a way to keep everything cannon._

**Bangs:** fringe of hair across forehead; the two locks of hair on either side of the face (closest to the face) usually shorter than the rest of the hair.

Sorry for the confusion. Bangs must be American, and if you're American and you still don't know it, then it must be a Southern thing.

**Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter nor Charmed, although one would think I should at least get an honorable mention by J.K. Rowling and the late Aaron Spelling for having studied their work so meticulously so many times. Sighs**

_

* * *

Without answering the headmaster's querying, concerned gaze, Chris gingerly lifted the hat from the desk and just as gingerly placed it on his head._

It fell over his eyes.

Glaring at the back of it and feeling immensely retarded, he suddenly heard a small voice in his ear. It was only through years of being a Halliwell and going through freakier stuff that he didn't register the emotion of surprise.

"Well, well, well," the hat began in soft, almost haughty tones, "what have we here? A witch, if I'm not very much mistaken. My, it's been a while since I've seen one of your kind… But where to put you…? There's talent, I see. You excel in just about everything you attempt-- a nice Ravenclaw trait, one of the nicest I've seen in a while. But there's darkness-- my word, yes-- darkness, cunning, resourcefulness… As Slytherin as they come… You have more darkness flowing through your veins than you do blood--"

"HEY!" Chris protested aloud before he could stop himself. "I do not!"

"I am very sorry to contradict," said the hat in tones that threatened contradicting, "but yes, _you do_. I'm the sorting hat, and I _know_. Now, back to where to put you--"

"No, not back to where to put me!" Chris interrupted, highly offended and at the same time feeling his cheeks flush in involuntary shame as he recalled exactly what was making the sorting hat say such things. "You can't just say something like that and then just pretend it doesn't matter!"

"Gentlemen, is there a problem?" said a quiet voice and Chris suddenly became painfully aware of the fact that he had been speaking aloud.

"Besides the fact that this _hat_ thinks I'm evil? Not at all!" Chris said tersely as he snatched the sorting hat off his head and glared at it. He wasn't evil. He fought evil everyday. He had done so many good deeds it _had_ to make up for all the stuff he was… less than proud of. It had to mean people couldn't accuse him of being evil anymore. This hat was _way_ out of line.

"Headmaster, I said he possessed a certain darkness that would be worthy of Slytherin," said the hat quite calmly. "I never accused him of being or having anything he isn't or doesn't. It's not my fault he's in denial."

"That's it," growled Chris. "You're going in the microwave!"

He made to leap at the hat but suddenly realized what he was doing-- what kind of impression he was making-- and reluctantly stopped himself. If he was going to convince Dumbledore that he was mature enough to handle himself, he couldn't exactly leap across desks to throw a talking hat in a microwave.

"Tell me, Albus," said the hat coldly and Chris got the distinct feeling it was still looking at him. "Do you think I could make a new house for the _insane_ ones?"

Chris didn't even move a muscle in order to set the hat on fire, but it didn't even have time to singe before Dumbledore flicked is wand and put it out. He gave Chris a stern look, but Chris brushed it off with a roll of his eyes, already forgetting his decision to act mature. He sat back down, though he couldn't recall the exact moment when he'd stood up and looked pointedly at the old wizard. "You still want me at your school?"

"Mr. Halliwell, it will take more than that to get rid of me, even if I would prefer for you not to set fire to ancient artifacts and/or students," came the easy response. The headmaster then turned to the sorting hat and queried, "Is Slytherin your final decision?"

The hat rustled slightly before responding begrudgingly, "I… think not. He may have _more darkness in his veins than blood_… but he's fighting it. Fighting it with everything he has, even though he knows the chances of him actually defeating it are… miniscule. And that, Headmaster, takes courage."

"And what about Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff traits?" asked Dumbledore thoughtfully.

"He definitely has the wit for Ravenclaw, but I do not believe he would be happy in such a serious, academic world. And there is no way I am putting him in Hufflepuff, as he is about as loyal as a mercenary."

At this, Chris scowled but stopped himself from making another scene. Was it really his fault the people he was supposed to be loyal to became evil overlords or backstabbing hypocrites? What was he supposed to do, throw his morals out the door and help his brother(s) kill people? 'Cause that would be the only way he could still be considered loyal and in that case, he wasn't going to do it.

"So your final judgment is…?"

The hat sighed audibly. "Gryffindor," it admitted at length and sighed again. "He belongs in Gryffindor… and God help his housemates."

Chris chuckled, a rather dark sound that made Dumbledore arch a bushy eyebrow in mild surprise.

Chris smirked. He didn't mean to sound evil or even bad, but what the hat said had just been so funny because he'd just been thinking the exact same thing… and neither of them was kidding.

"I need to speak with your head of house to inform her of your placement, if she is still awake," Dumbledore said, considering Chris with an unreadable expression, though Chris got the feeling Dumbledore was supposed to be making a joke. "I will have a student from your house with a generally similar schedule show you to your classes, common room, and dorm tomorrow. In the meanwhile, I'd like for you to stay here. I shall see you in the morning."

The wizard flicked his wand and the chair Chris was sitting on morphed into a bed while the rest of the room seemed to expand to keep proportions. Dumbledore smiled pleasantly and existed, dimming the lights considerably as he did so.

For a moment, Chris stared after him, then brushed off the man's peculiarities with a roll of his eyes. He pulled a slender two-way radio out of an inner pocket of his long black trench coat and noticed it was dead. He switched it off, then back on, but nothing happened. He frowned slightly. He knew large concentrations of magic usually screwed up electronics, but he had used a spell on it, like all the other Resistance devices, to guard against such things. He supposed he'd just have to renew the spell; after all, electronics not working wasn't really intentional, but merely a side effect of magic and could be cured with the right kind of magic.

He muttered the spell and was pleased to find the light of life flicker back on. He switched the frequency to the one leaders of the Resistance used and pressed the talk button.

"This is Chris, leader of FU1. Come in, please." He released the button and waited through the static.

There was a moment, then, "Hey, Chris, this is Mayfield. What happened?"

"I wasn't summoned by the Source, or anyone under his command," Chris replied, immediately knowing what the Resistance's reaction to his disappearance would have been. For a moment, he hesitated. He had no idea how to say what was going on in a way that wouldn't panic his colleague. He took a deep breath and made the decision to just get it over with. "I… well, Mayfield, I have to go back to school."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Dumbledore sat calmly in front of McGonagall's desk while the owner of it stared at him shrewdly. He had just informed her that a certain teenager by the name of Christopher Halliwell would be joining her sixth years come morning.

"Albus, you know I'm not one to question you," she began at last, "but what do you actually know about this one? He didn't say one word during the feast no matter how much I tried to start friendly conversation. And he didn't look very… Gryffindor."

"I do not know much," Dumbledore admitted evenly, helping himself to a licorice snap. "I do not know what happened to put him in the position he is in, or what happened to the rest of his family that they would allow such a thing. I would not even have known he was a Halliwell if I did not see so much of his mother and aunts in him. However, one things that I am sure of is that he needs our guidance, now more than ever."

"You mean he's a trouble-maker, don't you?" asked McGonagall bluntly. At Dumbledore's 'innocent' shrug, she rolled her eyes and responded, "Fine, sugar-coat it and don't answer. At least tell me what _position_ you are referring to."

"He is in a position of great influence over those around him," stated the headmaster cryptically, but he seemed unaware of how unhelpful his answer was as he pinched another licorice snap out of its box. McGonagall gave him a severe look, which he merely ignored.

She sighed, seeing how difficult it was going to be to get a straight answer out of him. She hated it when he got in these moods. "Did you at least find out what happened to turn his hair white--? I mean to say, he's _sixteen_."

"I have not found out," replied Dumbledore lightly. "He is quite a superb Occlumens and didn't hesitate to show me his thoughts about how my agonizing death will come about as soon as he realized I was peeking into his mind. That was before he decided to completely barricade me out, though, of course."

McGonagall arched an eyebrow and Dumbledore saw her interest had been piqued. "Almost, as good as, or better than Severus?"

"I would say… possibly as good as," determined Dumbledore after a moment. "I do not know how well he holds up under insistent digging. But that is beside the point, my dear. Might you be able to draw up a schedule for him?"

McGonagall gave him a pointed look. "His first year here N.E.W.T. level? How much about magic does he already know? Can he even use a wand?"

"I do not believe he can use a wand. When I met his aunt at the magical convention, she tried and… _failed_, though rather creatively."

"How can one fail creatively?" inquired Minerva, looking as though she were not sure if she was going to regret asking.

"You see, she waved the wand but used her own type of magic at the same time. She had us all convinced… until she could not longer contain her laughter, anyway," explained Dumbledore, actively picking through the snaps until he can across an odd, bright green one. He popped it in his mouth happily. "I was thinking he could use classes requiring wands for inspiration, maybe open more doors in his imagination that may later come in use. However, as you are the teacher, I suppose forcing him to do the bookwork same as everyone else might be amusing --and completely up to you."

McGonagall arched an eyebrow, and seemed to be prepared to respond, but stopped herself and ended with a sigh and shake of her head. "Alright. I'll give him a basic schedule, but tell him if he wants a class I do not have down for him, he can always ask and I'll see about it. Goodnight, Albus."

Dumbledore stood, beaming, and tipped his hat to her. "Goodnight, Minerva. Do not let the brass candlesticks bite."

"Brass--?" began the younger professor but caught herself. She didn't want to know. She sighed wearily and repeated, "Goodnight."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"I'm serious, Chris," Mayfield was saying. "Take the time off. You need it. If we need you over here, we'll call. Just… rest, and relax. You know, all that good stuff any number of us would love to do, given the chance. You deserve it; honestly, you've been working your ass off, now take a break."

"_But why should I get a break when people over there are still dying?" _Chris demanded in vehement tones, unable to comprehend why Mayfield was okay with it. "What, do I get special privileges or something? Honestly, tell me _why_."

"Chris, you may be a leader same as me, but I will get a council vote on this if I have to and then it will be a direct order. Look, you can still take your team out on missions during the weekend if it makes you feel better, but I really want you to take some time off and… pull yourself together. You've been… _off… _ever since… ever since what happened at Plateau." Here, some hesitation entered the man's voice, but Chris suddenly found his throat too constricted to interrupt, anyway. The man continued. "Chris… I may not know who you really are, or what history you've had, but it was clear you and Paris were close. And… and the loss was… was… terrible for us all. I guess… what I'm trying to say is…--"

"Just stop," Chris cut across Mayfield's silence in tones desolate of emotion. His lips seemed to speak the words without fully registering in his mind, which had drawn an empty blankness. He just… He didn't want this man talking about Paris-- about _him_. Mayfield had no idea… He just had no idea…

"Chris--"

"Fine, I'll stay here for a while. Tell my team for me. Talk to you later." He turned the radio off, something he never did because he had always been so paranoid something would happen where his help would be required. Now he needed time to himself without someone calling back to discuss his emotions.

Well, in all actuality, no one at the Resistance was likely to care enough about his _emotions_ to call back. Everyone at the Resistance had suffered, and they all had to deal with it. Why try to deal with someone else's problems on top of their own?

But they didn't know… They didn't know who he was or _half_ of what he'd been through in the last year alone. They just wouldn't understand. No one understood…

He sighed quietly and looked around at the bed he was supposed to be sleeping in. He had gotten off it while he talked to Mayfield and paced absently about the office, but now he had nothing else to keep him away from it. He contemplated the possibility of sleep. He usually avoided it until he was virtually dead on his feet… certain frequent dreams being the ones keeping him away… and today felt no different.

He sighed once more and decided to merely sit on it and observe the room again. The portraits were still 'sleeping' (he had caught at least one peeking an eye open at him every time he glanced up) and the phoenix was still eyeing him curiously from the perch by the door. It had landed on him the first moment he had been summoned, but seemed to rethink its decision to trust him as time went on. He felt a twinge of regret at that. Birds had always loved him…

Outside the window, the sky was dark with diamond-like stars on the horizon, their reflections in the lake giving the overall impression of glitter scattered in generous amounts over a painting's canvas. In the distance to the left of the lake, a small cottage had a light spilling from the window, casting the pumpkin patch in front of it in an orange glow, and to another direction, some kind of sports field was bathed in moonlight.

Everything was calm… unaffected by the horrors of war. He could see what looked like miles, and still, nowhere in sight was a crumbling structure, starving family… dead body. It was a sight he hadn't seen for over a year. It was… perfect.

So why did he resent the people that stayed here?

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Hours later, Chris had not had a wink of sleep and was no worse off because of it. Judging from the grayness on the horizon, it was about six o'clock in the morning and judging from his senses, Dumbledore was coming. He got out of bed and ruffled the covers to make it look as though he'd slept in it, then took a seat in Dumbledore's chair behind his desk. Usually, he wouldn't have done something so presumptuous, but he was still feeling cross with the man and there was no other chair in the room, now that his had been turned into a bed.

Just as he was getting comfortable (even though it was already a very comfortable chair), Dumbledore knocked gently and opened the door. His eyes twinkled pleasantly when he spotted Chris behind his desk.

"I trust you slept well?" the headmaster queried, tapping his wand against the head of the bed and sitting in the newly returned chair.

"As well as one _can_ sleep while being held against their will," Chris responded coldly and stood. "Can I summon my things or are you planning to force me to wear the same clothes day after day?"

"You still perceive me as holding you against your will?" asked Dumbledore softly, studying the teen's masked visage carefully.

Chris gave him an extremely blunt look. "I don't like being told what to do without being given options, _Professor_."

"I believe we have already established how very sorry I am to take such measures," came the somber reply, ignoring the icy emphasis on his title. "But yes, you may summon your things. I will leave you to change and summon a house elf with breakfast if you do not wish to go to the Great Hall where your housemates are."

"Fantastic." When it did not appear that Dumbledore was leaving before he summoned his things, Chris sighed and chanted a newly formulating spell.

"_Hear my cry, heed my call_

_Clothing, jackets, shoes and all,_

_Pack yourselves and come nigh,_

_I summon you, bye the bye."_

A trunk appeared out of thin air and fell to the floor with a slight bounce. Chris gave Dumbledore a look and said, "Happy, now?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Well, then. I shall leave you to it."

Chris rolled his eyes and picked out some more lovely black clothes-- long-sleeve black shirt, black cargo pants, black boots, and a long black trench coat. There was no way he was going to put on robes and a pointy hat, and he was glad Dumbledore hadn't even suggested it.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry made his way from the Great Hall, where he'd just gotten his schedule, to Dumbledore's office, where McGonagall said the headmaster needed a word with him. He relayed the password to the stone gargoyle and stepped onto the moving staircase, wondering if Dumbledore was planning to start their private lessons immediately. After all, the headmaster had to know this was Harry's free period and what better time was there?

He stepped off into the room that led into Dumbledore's office and was mildly surprised to find the man in question standing outside of it, humming lightly to himself. He instantly turned around upon seeing Harry.

"Ah, Harry! Good morning! Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, sir," Harry responded distractedly, looking between Dumbledore and the closed office door, wondering what the older wizard could be planning or doing.

Dumbledore seemed to sense his confusion and explained brightly, "I have a request to make of you. Would you mind showing a new student to his classes and… er… keeping an eye on him for me?"

"I-- what?" Harry said, completely baffled. Then he recalled the previous night. So the strange boy _was_ his age. "I… Yeah. Yeah, I'll do it. Erm… does that mean he's in Gryffindor?"

"It does," said Dumbledore, apparently pleased that Harry had agreed. He flicked his wand and a schedule appeared. The man stowed his wand back in his robes and took the floating parchment out of the air just as the door to his office opened.

Harry turned to see the same teen he'd spied on last night standing in the doorway and looking irked. Now that Harry could see him without the shadows surrounding him, he saw that the teenager was about as tall and thin as him and had vibrant green eyes… also very similar to his own. The only difference in that aspect was that the stranger's eyes held an exceedingly closed look. The boy had mid-length earth brown hair and the two locks of white hair Harry had seen earlier on either side of his face. He was wearing black, Muggle-styled clothes instead of the Hogwarts robes. He had his arms crossed.

"This my babysitter?" he asked Dumbledore coldly, nodding towards Harry.

"Harry, here, will merely be showing you to your classes and common room until you have learned the way around on your own," responded Dumbledore in a rather pointedly bright voice, Harry noticed. He wondered what they had been arguing about this time. He also wondered how Dumbledore had ended up convincing the boy to stay. However, his musings were cut short as Dumbledore continued with a twinkle in his eyes, "Harry Potter, meet Christopher Halliwell."

Harry waved awkwardly and Christopher Halliwell replied flatly, "Charmed, I'm sure," as he observed him. Harry wasn't sure if Halliwell had recognized his name or not, because he didn't seem concerned in looking at his forehead. Actually… the Halliwell's eyes had stopped rather distractedly on Harry's eyes and didn't seem interested in going any farther up. At length, the new Gryffindor tore his eyes from Harry's and glanced back to Dumbledore, and in turn the schedule in his hand.

"Plan on relinquishing my schedule or are you safekeeping it until Harry and I agree to be best friends for life or something?"

"By all means, be on your way," replied Dumbledore pleasantly, handing Halliwell the parchment. "And have a wonderful day."

Halliwell rolled his eyes and gave Harry a look that silently prompted the latter into waving bye to Dumbledore and leading the way out.

Harry glanced at the schedule in Halliwell's hand as they walked out into the corridor and Halliwell, catching his look and meaning, handed him the paper.

"You've got History of Magic first," commented Harry, mostly just to break the uncomfortable silence, but wasn't surprised when Halliwell responded sarcastically,

"No, _really_?"

Harry clenched his teeth quickly becoming tired of the other's attitude and said dryly, "It's this way. Come on."

There was little to no conversation on the way, all short questions being answered with short replies. Harry had never been gladder to see the door to the History of Magic classroom in his life.

"He won't even know you're there, so you don't have to bother telling him anything," Harry said as Professor Binns drifted through the door in front of them, completely oblivious to the fact that he had a classroom of live students to teach.

Halliwell arched an eyebrow and said tonelessly, "Looks like fun."

Harry snorted and prepared to leave when he spotted Draco Malfoy coming, his cronies Crabbe and Goyle nowhere in sight. The two enemies locked eyes almost immediately and Harry felt the temperature drop several degrees in accordance with his feelings.

Malfoy smirked. "How's your nose, Potter? Get Pomfrey to fix it first thing this morning? Not even a full day yet and you've already been to the infirmary."

"Shut up Malfoy," snarled Harry, hand instinctively going to his wand, but at the name Malfoy, Halliwell and stopped in the doorway and spun around.

Harry could only watch as Halliwell's and Malfoy's eyes locked, each widening in recognition.

"_You!" _they hissed simultaneously.

* * *


	3. Of a Student and Teacher

**Disclaimer: "I do not own Charmed or Harry Potter, nor am I in any way affiliated with their owners." Off the record, though, next time I say that, it'll be written down and I'll shove it up someone's… **_**anyway**_**, on with the story!**

* * *

Harry could only watch as Halliwell and Malfoy's eyes locked, each widening in recognition.

"_You!" _they hissed simultaneously.

Chris' mind reeled backwards in time and was overwhelmed with images, memories he wanted nothing more than to forget, but he managed to keep his expression impassive, nonetheless.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded in an icy tone.

"I've been going here for five years," snarled Draco Malfoy, turning a strange shade of pink, and Chris knew that the Harry Potter kid wouldn't know if it was from anger or shame/embarrassment, unlike Chris, who knew it was from both. "What are _you_ doing here? Aren't you-- gee, I dunno, _eighteen, nineteen_ years old?"

Chris scoffed. "I'm the same age as you, dumb ass."

The witch-lighter watched as the young Malfoy's face made an even funnier expression and turned pinker. He was receiving empathic waves of shock and horror mixed with not just a little disgust. "Is that really such a surprise, _Draco_?" he sneered to cover up his own morbid mixture of emotions. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. Draco Malfoy was not here. He was lying. This wasn't the boarding school everyone had talked about. This was just a bad dream. A bad dream and he was going to wake up any minute, now.

But he wasn't waking up.

Oh… no…

"Halliwell, what's going on?" asked Potter, looking between the exchange, obviously baffled but playing it off with a bit of external hostility.

"None of your business!" snapped both Chris and Malfoy without breaking eye contact.

There was a tense silence in which Chris and Malfoy merely glared at each other. At length, however, it was broken by Malfoy's stiff query,

"You got History of Magic now?"

"No, I'm just standing in the class' doorway for the heck of it."

"I am _so_ getting my schedule changed."

"Amen to that."

"As soon as I see my head of house during potions…" Malfoy glared icily to indicate how much displeasure he was going to have until then.

"I've got potions, too," commented Chris in the same stony tone, and assuming his theory that age groups were put together for classes, they would, logically, have it the same period.

"Do you _try_ to be a vexation or does it just come naturally?" shot back Malfoy, clearly furious and decently unnerved by now, unknowingly confirming Chris' theory.

"Eh, little of both, really," came the toneless response.

"…Figures…"

Chris merely rolled his eyes and ended the friendly little conversation by walking into the classroom and taking a seat. He had originally considered kicking the young Malfoy's butt into the ground to establish the fact that he wouldn't be messed around with… but he wasn't sure how people in this school— a school of students who could only use magic with wands—would react to the new student using wandless, dangerous magic. He didn't want to make a name of himself, here. He didn't want to be noticed and… _reported_ to… _higher_ _powers_. These people were safe… he did not need to bring the war in the Americas down on them, too.

A few moments later Malfoy strode in and, looking determinedly not at Chris, took a seat farthest from the one Chris occupied that he possibly could.

Chris just rolled his eyes again in his automatic method of showing how much he didn't care; how much it didn't bother him, when really his insides were churning sickeningly. This was not going to be a good, no, _bearable_ eight months if he had to spend _any_ amount of time with _Lucius Malfoy's_ _son_…

He was snapped out of his immediate thoughts, however, as a hand flashed in front of his face as though swatting at a point just before his nose. He blinked and twisted around to see who the hand belonged to. Protuberant, pale blue eyes met his, and the voice to whom they and the hand belonged said in a dreamy manner, "Deopians swarming all around your head. I think I got most of them…"

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry watched Malfoy's retreating back go into the classroom then turned and hurried to the Gryffindor common room where Ron had agreed to wait for him. Once there, Harry found his friend seated in front of the fireplace, staring vacantly into the flames. His head snapped up as soon as Harry entered.

"What did Dumbledore want? If that was your first lesson, it went fast…" Ron commented in regard to the private lessons Dumbledore was to be giving Harry. He widened his eyes in impatient prodding when it appeared Harry wasn't going to answer on his own.

"Oh, no," said Harry, attention snapping back into the moment. "It was that guy at the feast that Dumbledore was talking to—the American. I'm supposed to baby-sit him or something. Apparently he's a new student and Dumbledore doesn't trust him. But listen; he knows Malfoy and…" Harry proceeded to relay the conversation between the two to Ron, who listened with a dark look.

"So they've got history as enemies," Ron concluded when Harry was finished, eyes narrowed in thought.

"Definitely," said Harry with a sharp nod. "We've just got to find out why. I mean, if he's Malfoy's enemy then he should be our friend, right? So why wouldn't Dumbledore trust him?"

There was a pause, then Ron mused, "Think we could just ask? He _is_ in our year and house… He can't exactly make enemies of us…"

Harry considered it. Halliwell didn't seem the approachable type, and he was extremely introverted, but could he deny a direct request for information? After all, they would, indeed, be seeing rather a lot of each other for the next year.

He sighed and admitted, "I don't know. Look, I've got to go back to the History of Magic room in an hour to get him. You can come with me and we'll go to Defense together. We can ask him, then."

So, about an hour later, the two could be found trudging down a floor to the ghost's classroom and waiting idly for the class to end. Then, only moments after their arrival, the door banged open and students, grateful to be free of the pedagogue, flooded out almost simultaneously.

Harry and Ron stood back so they wouldn't be trampled in the stampede and watched for Halliwell's appearance. He was the last out of the classroom and looked to be in pleasant conversation with none other than Luna Lovegood, who was twirling her radish-like earrings as she spoke. Halliwell's intense green eyes glanced up to meet Harry's almost immediately and he stopped talking. Luna, seeming slightly surprised to find him stop in mid-sentence, also redirected her gaze from him to see what he was looking at. She blinked in her same dreamy manner and said in a voice to match,

"Hello, Harry. Ron. Have you met Chris? He's in our year—your house, I believe."

Halliwell arched an amused eyebrow at the girl. "I never said that."

"Well, you were either going to be in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, and since you're not in my house, you must be in theirs. And it would be rather bad if I was wrong and you're in Slytherin, because I don't like them very well."

"Oh…"

Harry and Ron stared at the exchange, neither quite knowing what to say. At length, Harry decided on answering the original question.

"Yeah, I know him. Ron, this is Chris Halliwell; Halliwell, this is Ron Weasley."

Halliwell, who had thrown Harry a dirty look at being addressed as Halliwell, nodded in Ron's direction upon introduction.

"Pleasure," Halliwell said with the expected amount of enthusiasm. Ron nodded distractedly, conspicuously sizing up Halliwell with his eyes. Harry noticed and, unable to tell him to stop and be a bit more subtle in front of present company, changed the subject hurriedly.

"Shall we get going, then?"

"Oh, I've got Divination," said Luna dreamily, staring up towards the ceiling where the room presumably was. "I'll see you later…"

She drifted down the hall and out of sight. Harry looked back to Halliwell, looking to see his reaction, and only felt a pang of stupidity when the inevitable response came.

"If you're waiting around here for me to lead the way, we might be standing here for quite a while."

Ron glared but Harry just rolled his eyes and started off in the direction of their destination. Ron and Halliwell caught up.

"So, Halliwell," began Ron in what was obviously supposed to be careless tones, "what's the deal between you and Malfoy?"

"None of your business."

Harry and Ron both gave him looks, which he returned rather innocently. When they ceased to back down, however, he rolled his eyes and said dismissively,

"Come on, you obviously know him and what he's like. Is there really any need for specifics? Honestly, use your imaginations and it's probably close."

"Maybe we'd like to hear it in your own words," said Harry, copying his dismissive style smoothly. "You know, conversation starter; something we can brood over together; get rid of the awkward unfamiliarness…"

"Or maybe we could turn the tables around on you and discuss _your_ history with him," suggested Halliwell, eyes twinkling, clearly amused by Harry's interpretation of his style.

"You know, Dumbledore gets that same look in his eyes," commented Harry, catching the familiar (in Dumbledore, at least) twinkling. He was surprised to see the almost-pleasant look vanish completely and become replaced with one of scathing unconcern. Halliwell didn't reply. Harry pushed forward, curiosity getting the better of him, as always. "What is it between you and Dumbledore? I mean, he's a great man; he can't have done anything wrong or offending. What do you have against him?"

"Something against Dumbledore? Preposterous!" said Halliwell in sardonic tones, copying Harry's English accent perfectly.

Harry scowled. "You know, you can be a very unpleasant character."

"Only when the situation calls for it."

"What _situation_?" retorted Harry, quickly losing his patience with the new student.

"You trying to find something to use against me only because you've found some inconsistencies and you'd rather assume I'm the problem before you admit maybe you don't quite understand a situation that has nothing to do with you and is none of your concern and you would, quite honestly, be better staying out of," Halliwell responded evenly without taking a breath.

Harry stared at him in disbelief before turning to share the same look with Ron, who took part in the exchange readily.

At length, the two just shook their heads and continued leading the way to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, no longer eager to talk to the other.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris inwardly sighed. He didn't like acting like an ass, but interrogations always put him in a foul disposition, especially when he was being unjustly questioned by people his own age who thought they had to be in the middle of what was going on when they really had no place there. Being in the middle of this could only end with them being hurt, but, of course, they couldn't see that. Typical teenagers usually didn't.

The other reason for his being 'unpleasant' was far less selfless. If he didn't kid himself, he knew this place wasn't going to be safe for long. His brother would sense him and either come after him personally, or send dear ol' Tommy to do his work. These kids would be hurt and/or killed… and Chris couldn't deal with losing anymore people close to him. It was better to keep distance, so he could detach himself as painlessly as possible when the time came. He knew it was selfish, unfair, and… _wrong_, but he just couldn't deal with loss, anymore… It was better to have never loved at all than to have loved and lost. Unimaginably better…

"Who's this?" a girl's voice broke through his thoughts, snapping him back into the moment. He looked up to see a girl with bushy brown hair and intelligent cinnamon-colored eyes. Almost the same color as his mother's, he noticed and suppressed a shudder.

"Chris," Chris introduced himself before Harry could get it in the girl's mind to call him Halliwell. Being the baby of the family, it was always the others that were addressed so formally by their infamous surname. It just felt wrong when it was used on him.

"Hermione," the girl replied, smiling and blushing slightly. Chris didn't even have to examine her empathically to know where that came from. He blushed, too, not having meant for anything of this sort to happen; he didn't know what to do…

"Inside. Now," a cold voice hissed from the classroom door, and Chris froze when it registered in his mind, and all previous thoughts about the girl Hermione vanished. He knew that voice.

Feeling as though everything was in slow motion, the teen turned from Hermione, his thoughts too shocked to exist, and let his eyes fall on speaker.

Their eyes locked.

They both turned as white as the front locks of Chris' hair. Shock white. Neither could move nor speak, and the majority of the students filed into the classroom, none the wiser.

Then it was only Chris, Snape, Harry, Ron, and Hermione left, the last three confused as to what was going on.

"Potter, Weasley, Granger-- inside, now," Snape said out of the corner of his mouth, eyes never leaving Chris'. Harry made as though to protest, but Snape barked, "NOW!"

The three seemed to hover for a moment, undecided, then sighed and trudged into the classroom, casting concerned and curious looks over their shoulders as they went in. Then time seemed to stand on hold again as the two stared at each other, the initial shock gradually beginning to wear off. The stunned silence turned into a tense silence.

For what felt like an eternity, neither spoke. After several more eternities, Snape broke it by whispering sharply, "What are you doing here?"

Chris' eyes instantly narrowed, and he felt rage flare to life within his chest. Whatever shock had remained vanished with an almost audible crack. He opened his mouth, ready to spit an answer back, but suddenly stopped himself. He was better than anger, which was what this man wanted from him. He was better than that quick temper that always seemed to get him into rather painful trouble, and he was better than this greasy jerk standing in front of him.

Yet he was still too angry to calm himself, so he merely suppressed it and threw up his usual cold façade. He mused tonelessly, "I thought that skank was kidding when she said you were a teacher."

"_That_ _skank_ was not," hissed Snape, glaring. _"Now, what the hell are you doing here?"_

"None of your damn business," Chris intoned coldly. "Now, what the hell are _you_ doing here? I mean, I knew Dumbledore was a maniac, but I didn't think he'd knowingly hire _Dead Smackers_."

"_Death_ _Eaters,"_ snarled Snape through gritted teeth, his face developing interesting splotches of red. "I will ask you one more time, Christopher: What—are— you— doing—here?"

"Or what?" Chris spat back, unable to contain his fury any longer. _"Or what?_ You'll get out your little wand and say a little, 'Crucio'? Maybe a little, 'Sectumsempra'? Or—I know!—you'll just stab me fifty times and watch me bled to death, instead!"

"That wasn't what you think!" Snape shouted, eyes gleaming with equal anger. "You don't know _anything_ about what happened, and _you can't be here!_"

"THEN TELL THAT TO YOUR BOSS!" Chris yelled, and, without any movement on his part, Snape was ripped from the floor and thrown violently backwards, straight through the heavy wooden classroom door. Chris, still too furious to care, turned on his heel and stormed away, his heart pounding and breathing heavy.

The corridors twisted and turned, staircases moved and disappeared, and portraits demanded to know who he was and what his intentions were as he stormed past. He ignored the portraits and verbally condemned the stairs. He orbed his way outside.

…

The lake was blue-gray in the late morning light, and Chris stared into it, mentally in his own, indescribable world. It was too soon. Much too soon. He couldn't deal with it… not now. Not ever. But especially not now.

He let out his breath and bowed his head, raking his fingers through his hair in distress. It had only been one day ago… _one day_, not even counting the five straight days of it before that… Why was this happening? Out of all the things possible in the world, why had his Angel of Destiny gone with _this_? It was just… _wrong_ and… _cruel_.

A shudder ran through his body as his mind went over everything. That man—that teacher— and the woman with the bone-chilling laughter… and Riddle… and Wyatt… the wands and the pain and the hunger and the blood and… too much. It was too much. All of it… just because he tried to do the right thing…

It was just too much.

He hugged his knees to his chest and stared deep, deep into depths of the lake, feeling as though, instead of shaking on the surface, his heart was shaking… his heart and his lungs. And he couldn't make the feeling stop.

"A wonderful place to come and think," a voice mused calmly above his shoulder. "I often find myself drawn here in my pensive wanderings, too."

Chris didn't respond, or glance up to see who it was. He felt no need, not even a slight inclination, to do either.

* * *


	4. Of Torture and Classes

**Disclaimer: I don't own nothin'. I hope you don't either, faggot.**

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"_A wonderful place to come and think," a voice mused calmly above his shoulder. "I often find myself drawn here in my pensive wanderings, too."_

_Chris didn't respond, or glance up to see who it was. He felt no need, not even a slight inclination, to do either._

There was silence. At length, the old wizard sighed and knelt upon the ground next to Chris. Chris immediately, subconsciously, stiffened but continued staring into the lake.

"Christopher…" Dumbledore began almost hesitantly, definitely picking his words carefully. "Why… did you have an argument with Professor Snape?"

"Because," Chris answered shortly and left it at that. He wasn't going to have this conversation. Not now, and not with him.

"Christopher," sighed Dumbledore into beard before turning glittering eyes to a distant point in the lake. His eyes openly betrayed the troubled mind and emotions within, but Chris was too resigned to honestly care. He was tired. He was too tired to care. He didn't _want_ to care… didn't want to feel _anything_… Then the wizard said with slight desperation, "I don't know how to help you if you don't _let_ me."

For a split second, Chris wanted to turn bodily around to gape at the headmaster, wanted to turn and rage at the headmaster, but he just didn't have that kind of passion and fury any more. It was too exhausting, and he needed all his strength to keep his unyielding mien in tact. He said quite bluntly, "I never _asked_ for your help."

"My child, a student never _has_ to ask," Dumbledore replied without missing a beat. He turned clear, sincere blue eyes on Chris, who unwisely let his own eyes become locked, and finished with quiet resolve, "I'm not going anywhere, Christopher."

Chris couldn't pull his eyes away from the older man's. He didn't have the strength… didn't have the heart. At length, however, Dumbledore softened the lock, and Chris was able to look away, although he somehow felt even more mentally disoriented. He didn't know what to say, what to do. He was so tired and sick of everything that had happened… everything that was still happening. He just…

"How much do you know about Snape's doings as a Death Eater?" Chris heard himself asking before his mind decided to cooperate.

Dumbledore was silent for almost a heartbeat, then answered softly, "He tells me the necessary information… but does not revel in the details. So that is how you met? In Lord Voldemort's company?"

Chris did not respond immediately, but let his mind race over what to confide, what to ask. His heartbeat was fluttery-- faint and quick, as was his untamable breathing. He couldn't get a grasp on himself enough to calm down, and his whirling mind did nothing to help.

Fighting unconsciously against the stinging in his eyes, at last, Chris whispered hoarsely, "Yes."

He blinked harder against the tears and hugged his knees to his chest, focusing his sight determinedly on a blade of grass at his shoe. He could feel Dumbledore's soft anguish at the news, and he could sense the man close his eyes, trying to accept it and find something comforting to say, as if there was anything. Somehow, feeling this made everything that much worse for Chris.

"You were the Resistance leader?" Dumbledore queried gently, not moving his gaze from the lake.

Chris nodded, his throat too constricted to speak, and Dumbledore seemed to understand.

The old man sighed again. "He told me he had to get information from a new enemy's leader. I was under the impression he would use a truth serum… It appears that was not the case…"

"But that would have been okay?" Chris asked, frowning at the grass and blinking back the pools in his eyes, suddenly feeling a strange sense of betrayal and… disappointment. "If he had done that, my people would have been found out and _slaughtered_. You would have been _okay_ _with that_?"

Dumbledore's eyes traveled slowly to Chris' face, and the latter looked up to meet them. Dumbledore's were filled with a deep sorrow. He said quietly, "If I could keep my spy that much longer… it pains me to admit… that yes, I was ready to sacrifice nameless, faceless innocents. Of course, I am relieved beyond words to hear that they were not harmed because of my decision… I am indescribably sorry to hear what position that put you in."

Chris smiled humorlessly and looked back to the ground. He let the smile slide away without a fight and slowly returned to his struggle against the tears as his next thoughts began tormenting him.

So his being tortured physically was actually a good thing… Because of that method, he had been able to save thousands of innocent lives… It had been a _good thing_. He had no right to be so torn up over it, because it was actually in his favor…

Then the memories of what had happened made their way back to the forefront of his mind. He felt, as real as if it were happening all over again, the knives pierce his flesh, and the fingers tearing it back… He heard the laughs and saw the sneers… He felt the hunger and tasted the blood… He knew the fear and utter helplessness. Hopelessness. …_For six straight days_.

He buried his face in his knees, teeth digging into his bottom lip in an effort to stop the tears that were determined to come and ruin everything. He hadn't cried thus far. He _couldn't_; not now; he wouldn't.

"It's okay to cry, Christopher," said the headmaster softly, and Chris could feel the man's pain from just watching (Chris). The struggle to resist became even harder. "It's only natural to want to release your emotions after such an ordeal. _It's okay_."

Chris shook his head. It wasn't okay, but he was afraid to open his mouth to deny it. He was afraid his voice just wouldn't work. He knew it wouldn't…

Time passed and Chris gradually managed to move past the desire to weep. He slid into a faintly numb state and stared at the shore, eyes glittering only slightly.

Dumbledore seemed saddened on some level by this development and took a slow, easing breath as he watched the ground in front of him.

"What happened, Christopher?" he asked softly, finally looking to the boy again, this time with pooling eyes, himself. There was such concern and compassion in them that Chris had to look away in order to uphold his sense of numbness. "What did he do to you?"

Chris continued staring at the shore, and at length, he (surprisingly) answered, though in an inhumanly detached voice. "He… and another Death Eater… and Riddle… tortured me… for six days… about the locations of the headquarters… and safe houses…. It only ended yesterday… about fifteen minutes before you summoned me."

He continued staring at the shore, not seeing it. Beside him, Dumbledore had regained his own control and stated calmly, "I see. How did you survive for six days, if Voldemort himself had a hand? The man is not known for letting enemies leave alive."

Chris didn't even blink. He replied tonelessly, "I didn't. They killed me… more times than I can count… but they resurrected me every time 'cause they weren't finished…"

"They resurrected you?" said Dumbledore sounding genuinely perplexed. He was watching Chris scrupulously over his half moon spectacles, now.

Chris nodded and explained in that same unnervingly distant voice, "Wyatt has genies under his control, now. They don't have to obey the traditional rules about bringing back the dead…"

"Wyatt?" repeated Dumbledore, trying to recall where he'd heard that name before. Chris intoned the answer before he had the chance to dig any deeper into his own memory.

"The Source of all Evil. Voldemort's boss."

There was silence following this statement. Dumbledore had known Voldemort was active in America, but he had thought that was because he was trying to take over, there, too. He hadn't known about there being two completely separate wars raging, now involving some of the different-war characters. This changed… so much. Just the fact that there was someone even more evil than Voldemort made him begin reevaluating all his initial thoughts. And some _one person _could be the _source _of _all_ evil… And this teenager, this _boy_, had been through _both_…

Dumbledore scanned the young Halliwell, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside his head. Christopher's walls, however, were strong, and the old man found nothing. He suppressed another sorrowful sigh and decided to go with what experience had taught him.

"You did nothing to deserve that treatment, Christopher," he said gently. "It was wrong for you to be put in that position at all."

"But I was," whispered Chris, still staring into his own world. "And it turned out better that way…"

Dumbledore's brow furrowed. What on earth did the boy mean by that? He asked such.

"If Snape had used a truth potion… I would have told, and they all would have died… I wouldn't have stood a chance… But by being tortured… I could fight it, and I did… They were spared because of it…"

Dumbledore continued to gaze at the youth. Christopher was much too logical for his own good. The boy shouldn't be so accepting of such a thing… it wasn't right. He shouldn't have to be so mature. For Christ's sake, _he was only sixteen._

"So what would you have me do?" murmured Chris, remaining as motionless as before. "Pitch a fit? Throw a tantrum? That wouldn't help anything…"

Dumbledore smiled faintly when he realized Halliwell had sensed his thoughts, most likely without even realizing it. "No, a tantrum would not help anything in the war, but it _would_ help you keep your sanity just a little while longer."

Chris finally looked up at him, the first real grin passing across his face since they met. It was much smaller than Dumbledore would have liked, but it was a start. "I haven't been sane since I was, like, five years old," he commented, eyes slightly amused as well. "And I've been _registered_ insane since I was twelve."

"Well, now we know why," remarked Dumbledore, also smiling and profoundly relieved to find Chris becoming comfortable (to an extent).

Chris smirked and looked back to the lake, his eyes beginning to cloud over again. His expression darkened and he seemed to lose himself in his own world once more.

Even though Dumbledore could not gain access to his thoughts, he somehow was able to sense where the boy's mind had wandered. Now was his chance to ask…

"Christopher… where… is your family?"

There was a moment, a split second at the most, in which Dumbledore was sure he had crossed a line that ended any possible chance of ever getting Chris to open up to him again; but that moment passed, and he was only left with an open conversation in a suddenly colder, tenser atmosphere. He hadn't crossed a line, but he was still treading on thin ice.

Several seconds passed, and Dumbledore began to fear that Chris was not going to answer. The boy was staring stolidly at a point just above the horizon, his eyes slightly wider than before, and he didn't appear to be breathing.

The headmaster, beginning to worry, began with concern, "Christopher--?"

"They're dead," Chris whispered, blinking and looking to the ground. "They're all dead."

Slowly, Dumbledore closed his eyes. He had been hoping that wasn't the answer. He had been hoping Chris still had at least one family member left in the world… He knew how close the Halliwells were…

"When did this happen?" Dumbledore inquired softly.

"…About four… maybe five months ago. I'm… I'm not really sure," Chris admitted, bowing his head so that his hair fell across his face. He fidgeted with a blade of grass. His eyes weren't even glittering anymore. He had gone to a place beyond pain; he had made himself numb to reality because he couldn't face it and survive. He was simply, and only, picking at the grass.

Dumbledore watched him sadly, wishing there was something comforting to say… but what was there? The boy had lost all his family, probably in only a few blows, if not all at once. Actually… knowing how close and involved all the Halliwells were… he doubted any of them would have let a relative be killed without trying to intervene, therefore getting killed themselves. It was most likely in a single day.

"Christopher…" He began, feeling his own heart constricting as he tried to string comforting words together. "I'm sure there was nothing you could have done. You-- your family… has always believed that everything happens for a reason. That tells you that it was… meant to be. They served a greater purpose… and you still have one to fulfill, yet."

Chris shot him a cynical look before turning back to the lake. He didn't even bother humoring Dumbledore with a response. He didn't care enough for that. He'd been hearing the 'everything happens for a reason' speech ever since he came into the Halliwell family, probably more times than the rest of the family combined, since his life had always sucked so much more than the others'. It was always the first 'comforting' thing his aunts and uncles used to say to him, and even _they _had seemed to lose conviction in it after going through so many years of the same, unchanging hell. He admitted that everything probably _did_ happen for a reason, but what good was there in talking about it when you'd have to go through that 'everything' regardless of whether you believed there was a divine reason or not? It wasn't like 'everything' was going to go away depending on your personal beliefs…

Beside him, the old man sighed then opened his mouth to speak. Chris cut him off harshly.

"I don't want to talk about how I feel, anymore. Are you going to take me out of Snape's class or are you going to replace Snape?"

Dumbledore moved his eyes to meet Chris' and locked them. Chris' mask hardened even more, if that was possible, and he arched an eyebrow as if daring Dumbledore to try and bring up emotions again.

Dumbledore continued searching the nonexistent cracks in the mask, seemingly thinking and weighing possibilities within his mind. After a few more moments, Dumbledore reached a decision.

"I would like you to remain in the class, and Professor Snape will remain the teacher." When Chris opened his mouth to protest, Dumbledore cut across him smoothly. "You do not have to return today. I obviously must have a word with him before I lock you in a classroom together." Here, he met Chris' eyes again and held them, using as much sincerity as was believable as he spoke. "I understand that it will be hard, Christopher; it will be awkward, and you won't be in the best of moods with your peers, either, around him, but his expertise is like none other's. If you insist on fighting in the war, I must insist on you taking this class and learning _whatever_ he has to offer." Chris opened his mouth yet again to protest, but Dumbledore's countenance formed stern lines. "This is my final decision, Christopher," he said firmly. "Unless Professor Snape murders you in that classroom, _I want you there."_

Chris tore his eyes from the old man's, understanding that he really didn't have a say in the matter, but feeling an internal battle raging, anyway. He could cut class. He could run away… or not, seeing as the headmaster was the only one that could open the barriers around the school… but he could figure out something… Or not. Maybe… maybe he could actually cooperate… to the best of his abilities, anyhow. That Snape dude was only a spy. He had been forced to… to torture Chris in order to protect his own people… It hadn't been his call…

The methods the man used to torture him, however, begged Chris to think otherwise. _Completely_ unnecessary and uncalled for… ruthless… heartless… again, unnecessary. It couldn't have been more obvious from the very beginning that Chris wasn't going to tell. There was no need to test that fact to such an extent… It went way past what was merely _required_ for a spy to fit in… And Chris knew, because he just so happened to be rather good at spy work.

"Fine," Chris heard himself saying in a resigned way. "I'll try."

Dumbledore's face softened and a smile graced his features once more. "Wonderful. And… I hesitate to ask for anything more--"

"But you're going to because you think if you get that out of me you can get something else, too."

Dumbledore continued smiling, his eyes twinkling again. "Well, since you put it that way…" he responded to the fairly playful accusation but didn't finish that train of thought. He looked at Chris with knowing eyes. "Your sixth year acquaintances aren't as fragile as you might think, Christopher. You can trust them. I'm not saying you should take them with you to your Resistance to form war strategies or anything of that sort, but you can talk to them."

Chris smirked somewhat ruefully as he turned his gaze back to the grass. "It's not their bravery or reactions that worry me."

"You're afraid they'll be hurt for befriending you. And… you're afraid of facing loss, again," Dumbledore implied quietly, studying the teen.

He smiled wryly, plucking at a blade of grass but not answering. It was enough.

Dumbledore mirrored his expression. "…There is a particular trio," he began slowly, "who I know can compete with quite a number of grown witches and wizards." At Chris' querying, arched eyebrow, Dumbledore smiled and said plainly, "They know how to take care of themselves, and that's all you need to hear from me. They are fierce fighters as well as friends, and I believe that's exactly what you need right now, Christopher. Don't push them aside so readily."

Chris gave him a look. "I do have friends in other places, you know. I'm not _completely_ shutting myself away from humanity."

Dumbledore stated calmly, simply, "You need friends your own age."

Chris gave him another look, but this time he was unable to compete with the old man's own pointed look. Chris sighed and looked away. "Alright…," he finally yielded. "I'll try and be more… _pleasant_, but you know I can't make people like me."

"That's all I can ask of you," Dumbledore chuckled.

Chris had a comment prepared to throw back, but was unable to as his cell phone began ringing. His eyes immediately widened when he realized his radio to the Resistance was still cut off. If they had resorted to calling his cell phone, it _had_ to be bad.

Without hesitating, he pulled the phone out and opened it. Immediately, sound assaulted both headmaster and student. Sounds of explosions and screaming. Then sounds of Joden's voice yelling above it all,

"Chris, we need you to get down here, pronto!"

"Why, what is it?" Chris asked, listening intently for Joden's voice through the chaotic background noise.

"Dragons! About-- I dunno-- ten, fifteen of 'em-- _hey, you four! Go with that lady, there!_-- You know dragons: they're so freakin' fast no one can really tell how many…" Just as he drifted off, there was another explosion followed by vehement swearing.

Chris looked to Dumbledore. "I need to go," he said pointedly.

"Is there no other help available?"

"Joden, what happened to the dragon control team?" Chris said into the phone.

"They're doing-- something with some-- blue light, but it ---doesn't seem to be working… Yeah, they --look-- clueless…" Joden managed between crashes and explosions. Then there was a stream of more impassioned swearing, followed by, "DUNCAN, GET THOSE IDIOTS OUT OF HERE! _EVERYONE PULL BACK TO THE THIRD LEVEL! NOW!_ Chris, _we need you_!"

Chris shot Dumbledore an icy look. "Now, would be nice," he informed the headmaster in regards to the barriers around the castle.

Dumbledore, not appearing absolutely comfortable with the arrangements, at length conceded and muttered the counter-enchantments.

"Do you need transportation?" Dumbledore inquired just before Chris was enveloped in flames and vanished.

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**Sorry about the long delay. I'll really, REALLY try not to ever take that long again. THANK YOU SO MUCH for the reviews! One of these days I'll get around to answering you all individually, again, but now I just don't have the time. I STILL LOVE Y'ALL, THOUGH!!! And please review this chapter. I'm really nervous about how it will be received...**


	5. Of Dragons, Demons, and Whitelighters

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue. Okay? Okay.**

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_**Chapter Five**

_Do you need transportation?" Dumbledore inquired just before Chris was enveloped in flames and vanished._

The teenager reappeared in a scene of disarray and devastation. The place itself was usually an indoor jet landing pad, but the entire front wall had been destroyed and lay in burning crumbles on the scorched floor. The jets themselves had been thrown every which way bearing long scratches and torn off parts. All around him, people were screaming, panicking, and running towards the back exit to the main section of the Resistance base. In the sky, dark streaks blurred past and streams of fire whooshed towards the opening in the facility's walls.

Chris, trying to avoiding streams of flames and running into the terrified civilians, darted to the front where the dragon control team-members were yelling hysterically at each other about what to do.

"Get out of here!" He yelled above the havoc in the background and the team's own arguing. They immediately looked up upon hearing his voice, and looks of pure relief spread across their faces. Chris failed to mirror those expressions, but instead barked, _"Now!"_

Seriousness returned to their features and they hastened to react. They were lost in the swarming crowd within seconds.

Chris was drawn from watching their retreating backs, however, less than a moment later as three huge, scaly, sweltering bodies crashed into the floor so hard he was thrown backwards by the earthquake-like aftermath of it. The one on the far end stomped and snarled as it took in its surroundings through scarlet, cat-like eyes; a strand of fire was dangling from its razor-toothed mouth like a string of dragon-drool. Beside it, the same species was rearing on its back legs, letting loose a hair-raising yowling scream. The one closest to him was low on all fours, its blood-red wings furled close to its body and its twenty-foot long neck swinging around as it surveyed what it believed its new territory. It snorted deep in its throat and a mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke issued from its nostrils.

Before Chris could even climb to his feet, the winged lizards collectively began spewing fire, and he was forced to use his hands to evaporate the flames using his power over fire. As soon as they stopped spitting fire long enough to turn their scarlet, scaly heads to him, he scrambled to his feet and consciously pushed the icy tendrils of fear from every corner of his body. He steeled himself and took a firm fighting stance against the three, ten-story high creatures of destruction.

Dragons were not evil creatures, so Chris knew he couldn't vanquish them… He had to get rid of them without causing them serious harm.

_Ha. This… is going to be fun_, he mused as he redirected streams of flames back at the creatures that had breathed them. He dive rolled away from several clubbed tails and threw up a shield against an onslaught of vicious leathery wings by pushing out a palm. When the trio did not cease attempting to beat his shield in with their wings, and he began feeling the strain against his scarlet force shield, he pulled back both hands and immediately pushed outward again but with all his strength. The beasts were sent careening into the right-hand wall with such might that it collapsed on top of them. They didn't get back up.

Chris folded over with his hands on his knees, panting, but barely had a moment to catch his breath before another dragon landed roughly a few feet away from him. He straightened out instantly and took another firm stance, but sweat was now forming along his brow. He had used too much energy in just the first moves with just the first dragons… He would have to pace himself (if that was at all possible when fighting fire-breathing, spike-tailed monsters the sizes of 50- passenger-airplanes) if he was going to incapacitate the other God-knows-how-many.

He had only a second to glance behind him and see that everyone was out of the landing area and harm's way before the new arrival began releasing jets of flames.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Dumbledore paced his study, anxiously awaiting the results of a spinning, smoke-billowing little contraption. It was an ancient device that used smoky symbols to represent the information requested of it. While it had the answers to almost every question imaginable, if the question was worded an exact way, it used so many unusual shapes that could be interpreted so many different ways that the wizarding population at large had given up on making it a common practice. Only a few souls could still make accurate assumptions based on the results presented.

And today it was taking longer than it normally did.

Then, at last, a smoky green eagle-like symbol poofed up from the contraption and rotated above it for a few moments.

Dumbledore had his answer, the location of the famed Resistance.

By the time the symbol had dissolved in the air around it, Dumbledore was already heading out of the castle gates to Disapparate.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

The aged headmaster watched the boy knock out dragon after dragon, always being careful not to kill them. Christopher looked exhausted, physically and mentally, Dumbledore noticed after about the eighth dragon, but the boy still seemed to be able to find that last bit of strength -- time after time. It was almost painful to watch.

Finally, Hogwarts' newest student telekinetically threw a giant slab of concrete into the second to last dragon, successfully giving it an extreme concussion and knocking it out, and, breathing heavily, he turned to the last.

This fire breathing lizard had a rider.

The rider was wearing a deep blood-red outfit that appeared to mark him as being from the Middle East (or so Dumbledore concluded from the trademark style of headdress and facial scarf). The rider was on no saddle but was handling reigns as he pulled the deadly flier to a halt in front of the Halliwell boy.

The rider, never breaking eye contact with Christopher, slid expertly off the exotic steed's back and approached the teen almost… somberly. For a moment, the two stared at each other, neither's faces showing emotion. At length, the rider broke their tense lock of gazes to appraise the young Resistance member.

"So… _you_ are the Great Christopher Halliwell," he remarked quietly, circling the boy, inspecting him as he spoke. He walked completely around Christopher, who remained motionless, following the stranger with only his eyes. After a moment, the rider stopped in front of him and regained eye contact. "You're younger than the stories imply… than I expected." His face still betrayed no emotion, but his voice was solemn.

"And you must be Daeku," Chris responded shortly, with the same closed expression. He gave the rider a quick, obvious once-over, the commented, "You're shorter than I'd imagined."

The rider-- Daeku-- failed to react. He merely continued gazing at Christopher, as if he were lost in thought. At length, he said in the same quiet voice, "I must say, I have been researching you… your strategies… for some time. Surely you realize how my dragons penetrated this facility so far into the second level? It was your own _Amiscuss_ _Veva_ strategy…"

"_Amiscuss_ _Veva_ involved three jets, not a dozen dragons," Chris replied just as quietly, only with a fair bit more venom. "The entire point was to use as little force as necessary for as much damage--"

"As possible," finished Daeku with a faint smirk. "But I had to lure you out personally somehow, didn't I? Dragons… to match your unparalleled power over fire…"

"You were trying to lure me out?"

Daeku continued smiling, though it was almost sadly, now. "Lord Wyatt had put me at the head of the department that is trying to find and capture you. Did you know he has a full department solely for you?"

"I did," came the cold response. "Shouldn't you be happy to have me right here in your hands?" he added, hinting to the man's obvious sense of melancholy.

"You misunderstand me, Lord Christopher," said Daeku with that same smile. "I am an admirer of yours. It will bring me no pleasure to do what I must, but I must do it anyway. Forgive me for saying so, but Lord Wyatt's wrath weighs much more heavily on my mind than anything you could compare with."

Christopher snorted. "Don't I know it. But how the hell are you on his side and an admirer of mine? _My what_, exactly?"

"You forget, you were on our side, once. Your strategies… were brilliant. Your power, _command_… legendary. I have had access to it all in order to better know you… To better predict you…"

"Oh? The what do I want to do right now?"

"Blast me into oblivion to shut me up."

"Wow, you _are_ good."

"Yes. And now, I am afraid, I must test your dueling abilities myself," the rider informed him solemnly.

"Says who?" shot back Chris, clearly worn out from battling the dragons and masking that fact with plausible defiance.

Not even Dumbledore was fast enough to see Daeku whip out a vial from some pocket in his robes and throw it directly in front of Christopher's feet.

There was an explosion that's force was so great the teenager was hurtled off his feet and thrown several meters back. He hit the ground hard and rolled to a stop. Before he had time to get to his feet, however, the rider thrust out his hand and a jet of green light soared at him. Chris threw out his palm and a scarlet shield materialized in front of him, but, to Dumbledore's surprise, the green light went straight through it and into Christopher's shoulder, tearing the flesh with a vengeance. Christopher briefly screwed up his eyes in pain, but the next second, he had flung out his hand and sent Daeku whirling high into the air. The man hit the eighty-foot ceiling within only a second of leaving the ground but somehow managed to right himself in the air before he got close to the floor again. He landed cat-like just as Christopher was getting to his feet. There wasn't a pause before Daeku had whipped his hand and sent a lasso of green light at Christopher, who flicked his wrist and sent the light back at its owner. Daeku absorbed it with his palm and conjured a fireball, which he lobbed in Christopher's direction. Christopher held up his hand and the fireball stopped, spinning in front of his face, the began to grow.

The fireball's shape began to morph as it expanded, slowly becoming a wide sheet of flames. Christopher narrowed his eyes and the blanket of fire soared to Daeku, who was enveloped in the roaring mass. A few seconds passed, and nothing changed. There were no screams of a demon being vanquished, and there was no difference in the fire, nor any sight of Daeku reemerging. Christopher seemed to still be concentrating, though, and the Dumbledore realized why. He could now, also, feel the rider trying to throw it off.

And then Daeku succeeded, and the force in which he used to remove it sent Christopher reeling backwards. Or… that's what Dumbledore thought was the reason Christopher was suddenly stumbling to the floor, his face taut with pain.

But, as Dumbledore surveyed the magic involved, he realized with a start that Daeku had nothing to do with it. Some other outside force was attacking the boy mentally.

Daeku smiled sadly as he saw Christopher's unexplained anguish. "…As little force as necessary… for as much damage as possible," Daeku quoted softly and Christopher's eyes shot up to meet his, widening in horrible understanding.

I (the writer, Warriora) will not record what profanities Christopher said in response (and people who've read Fishy Chrissy know I've written some pretty rough things), but I _will_ note that he said it twice: once about Daeku, and once about Daeku's mother.

The duel started again so fast and so heatedly that Dumbledore couldn't be certain which had thrown the first proverbial punch, but before he knew it, green jets of light were shooting in every direction, as were fire and chunks of concrete wall. The duelists were ducking, jumping, and diving out of the way in such quick sequence, it looked like the two were dancing while the world around them was exploding.

Dumbledore watched, a feeling of pure anxiety clawing at his chest. He knew he couldn't interrupt this or he would never earn Christopher's trust. He got the feeling the teen wouldn't think too highly of being tailed… and Christopher wasn't Harry; Harry, who he knew would return to Hogwarts no matter what; Harry, who always found it in his heart to forgive and trust… Christopher wasn't Harry at all, yet this was the only way Dumbledore would be able to find out who exactly Christopher _was_.

He was finding out: Christopher was a pretty good magical fighter. Way beyond the other sixth years in the area, and he was only really using telekinesis and pyrokinesis. He was even better at Muggle hand-to-hand combat. Christopher could definitely take a hit-- the gash in his shoulder didn't seem to even exist anymore, the way the boy moved.

Dumbledore was also finding out that no matter how good Christopher appeared to be, Daeku was better.

Daeku managed to get a chunk of concrete as wide as a dinner platter and as thick as a dinner platter past Christopher's telekinesis, and as a last split-second reaction, the teen spin-kicked it in half. One half went flying backwards but the other collided harshly with his legs, knocking them out from under him and sending his face-first to the floor. The Halliwell grimaced and, only raising his head, flicked his wrist in Daeku's direction, but Daeku deflected the telekinesis with an amber shield. Christopher threw out his hand at a slab of concrete and flung it, but it, too, bounced off the shield.

As Daeku calmly advanced, Chris struggled to his knees, but couldn't seem to stand up. His dark jeans had tears where the rock had ripped them, and the little bits of exposed flesh were deeply gashed and surrounded by dark bruising. They were both broken, Dumbledore realized, wanting more than ever to intervene. Near-clairvoyant instincts held him back.

Daeku stopped directly in front of Christopher and looked down at him. Christopher looked right back, defiantly, though there was obvious anguish behind his eyes. Dumbledore didn't know if whatever had attacked him mentally was still assailing him, or if it was the pain of two shattered legs. Whichever it was, the headmaster didn't know how much longer Christopher would last battling both it and the exhaustion.

Daeku was speaking again. "Tell me, young Lord Christopher, was it my dragons that wore you down… or are the voices in your head _overwhelming_ you?" he asked, putting a delicate emphasis on 'overwhelming' as he made a predatory circle around the boy, calculating him carefully with his eyes.

Halliwell merely glared in answer, but Dumbledore sensed a shudder of suppressed pain run through his body. Was now the time to reveal himself and provide assistance, or did Christopher still have more left in him?

"If this is all it takes to debilitate you, why-ever are you still being allowed to wreak such havoc on our forces?" Daeku murmured rhetorically, still revolving around Christopher, still calculating the boy with contemplative eyes.

"What can I say? I'm special," Christopher answered coldly.

"I'd like to second that," said a voice from behind them. Christopher didn't turn, but Dumbledore did to find a young man with dark auburn hair and blue-green eyes with a person on each side of him. The young man was pointing a Muggle gun steadily at Daeku. "Chris is very spe-thal."

He pulled the trigger several times in quick succession, and Daeku stumbled back, looking at the gaping, smoking holes in wonder. That shouldn't have worked. Guns didn't work on demons or warlocks, and bullet holes weren't supposed to gush smoke, either. The demon's dark eyes found Christopher's twinkling ones.

"Bet you can't figure out who had the brilliant idea of putting vanquishing potion inside bullets, can you?" Chris asked with a smirk.

A sort of awe and unquestionable pain filled Daeku's eyes, and he studied Christopher with this newfound perspective. "Of course…" he breathed as he stumbled shakily back to his fire-breathing steed. As he mounted the dragon, Dumbledore could hear him murmur more to himself than anyone else, "…_Brilliant_…"

He and the dragon vanished in a torrent of fire.

Dumbledore didn't move, but remained watching as the three newcomers rushed to Christopher's side. The young man and the woman grimaced at the sight of his condition, but the vampire (Dumbledore had had his share of experience with vampires and could easily identify one, even in its human form) asked calmly, "Who was that?"

"Daeku; what's going on with the other Resistance locations?" Chris asked urgently as he tried moving his legs, but they were definitely broken. He drew a breath and closed his eyes, obviously fighting back pain.

"What? Why? And where's your whitelighter? Shouldn't she be here healing you by now?" the woman asked, her features awash with concern.

"Something Daeku said about causing damage… then about a hundred or so innocents started screaming in my head, so I assume a site is under attack. Find out. …Uh, _now_," he added when no one moved.

"Your whitelighter?" repeated the woman, not budging.

There was a pause in which Chris hesitated, but at everyone's pointed stares, he finally conceded, "Well, she's kind of… in… well,… Valhalla."

Silence. The three (what Dumbledore assumed were) friends continued staring at him, now with rather blank expressions. Finally, the young man with the dark red hair sighed. "_Again_? You know, one day that woman is going to have had enough and she's just going to lock you in your room until the war's over."

Chris rolled his eyes. "She's already tried. Not to mention the fact that she's also tried to get me o stop smoking _and_ drinking. I swear, she's going to be the one to end up killing me; forget the Source."

"That still doesn't mean she deserved to be shipped off to Valhalla," said the young woman in a chastising tone. "You should be more easy on her. She's just trying to do her job, you know."

Chris rolled his eyes. "This is a great morality lesson and all, but someone _really_ needs to go check on the other Resistance sites." When the team merely arched eyebrows at him as though he were forgetting something, he finished in a resigned voice, "And I'll get little Miss Perfect Whitelighter back from the Valkyries."

That was good enough for them. The three walked back through the door to the main sector leaving Chris alone to get his guardian angel back.

The boy sighed and searched through the many pockets of his trench coat, finally pulling out a blue-green pendant. He pressed the framed stone and suddenly, only feet in front of the boy, a vortex whipped out of thin air.

"Freeeeeyaa!" Chris called in a sing-song voice into the portal. "Thanks for taking her, but I need Lily back, now!"

There was a pause, and then a female voice called back, "One moment while someone retrieves her."

Dumbledore watched calmly. He knew whitelighters were the spirits of people who had done great good in their lives… therefore, he wasn't at all surprised when a corporeal form of Lily Potter all but leapt out of the whirling portal. It closed behind her with a gust of wind.

"Oh my God," the woman, who looked no older than twenty-five, breathed. She immediately dropped to Christopher's side and held her hands over his injuries. A golden glow began to radiate from her hands and, before their very eyes, Christopher's wounds closed up and were healed. "What happened?" Lily Potter demanded, her voice wrought with concern, remarkable green eyes wide.

"Oh, you know, life happened. Again."

Lily rolled her eyes, clearly used to he sort of things that came out of his mouth. "Christopher…" she warned in a voice Dumbledore imagined she might have used on her Harry when trying to wrangle information out of him. It was the voice of a mother to a rebellious son, and something about that made the old man's heart ache.

Harry would never hear that voice.

Chris rolled his eyes. "The Source's second-in-command, Daeku, decided to pay a little visit."

"Daeku? I though Voldemort was his second-in-command?" Lily asked, brow wrinkled, perplexed and concerned.

"They both are," Chris responded, getting to his feet and holding a hand to Lily. She accepted and was pulled gracefully up. Chris continued the explanation as they began walking to the door his team had gone through. "The Source has a person from each magical world in positions of command under him. Voldemort from the wizarding, and Daeku from the wiccan."

"So who's in command when the Source is busy? Daeku or Voldemort?" queried Lily, watching her charge's impassive face intently.

"Both. He liked Sparta's idea of a duel monarchy, where they have to both agree on a decision before one is made, as a way to weed out the utterly stupid ideas." When Lily seemed about to find a flaw in that plan, clearly unable to imagine Voldemort sharing power, Chris smirked and answered the question before it could be voiced. "Believe me, as intimidating as Voldemort can be, he won't dare challenge the Source of _All_ Evil, who would inevitably find out if his system had been cheated."

"So you're saying Daeku is less powerful than Voldemort, and he still broke both your legs, two ribs, and tore a shoulder to a bloody mess?" Lily shot back with that same maternal angry disapproval.

Chris rolled his eyes again, but still opened the door for the woman. Dumbledore slipped in behind them silently before the door closed. "How was I supposed to know insulting his mother would make him a more driven fighter? An honest mistake on my part…" Chris was saying dismissively.

Lily scoffed, then asked quite curiously, "What is it with you and 'your mom' comebacks? I swear, every other insult that comes out of your mouth is directed at a person's mother. And, for your information, I happen to be a parent, too."

"I know."

"And my son is actually about your age."

"I know."

"So I've told you before?"

"You and your husband, both," Chris said in a surprisingly bitter tone. Lily actually blushed and mumbled,

"James wouldn't have tied you to the chair if you had just stopped trying to leave…"

"Uh-huh," came the oh-so-convinced response.

Lily sighed. Apparently they had had this discussion (to no avail on either side) before, and the whitelighter was done trying to convince him. She changed the subject. "So… about sending me to Valhalla… _again_…"

Chris smirked without answering as he turned into what appeared to be a conference room. He closed the door in her face.

Dumbledore watched Lily's mouth fall open in shock and indignation, and for a moment, he wanted nothing more than to pull his former pupil into an embrace. Here she was, (basically) alive and well, after fifteen years of nothing. Here she was, separated from her own son and having to deal with this troubled teen instead. What was it like? What was going on inside her head?

Dumbledore wouldn't look into her mind. She had gained too much of his respect for him to do that without her consent. He would just have to ask her.

But not now. Now he had to follow Chris, find out more. If he stopped to talk to Lily, they might go on for hours, and he would miss the opportunity to watch Chris' interactions with other Resistance members. The observations were necessary. He had to understand.

Feeling a gripping sense of regret, Dumbledore sighed, walked through the door, and stood off to the side, watching what was going on. They were in a room that looked like many business conference rooms. It was large with no windows and a long table in the middle. About a dozen people, most about 30 or older, were sitting around it. Everyone looked tired and worn. Dumbledore had only missed the greetings in his hesitation about talking to Lily.

"There were several dragon attacks all over the country at the other Resistance locations," a man with short brown hair and a sturdy build was saying, typing on and looking at a thin laptop. "They're still fighting, but the dragons seem to want to scare people more than they want to destroy."

Chris nodded, eyes thoughtful, and Dumbledore felt realization dawn on him. Chris was an empath. It was the others' fear and pain that had been a mental attack on him during the duel. Daeku had planned on that… _"As much damage as possible"_… And Chris had figured that out as soon as Daeku said it. That was why he said such foul things about Daeku and his mother…

"What's more, is that every attack was an individually altered spin off of the Volley Rampage strategy, like someone else was trying to figure out exactly how the original was pulled off," the man continued, but was cut off from anything further as a woman interrupted,

"The Volley Rampage strategy? I didn't find anything about that in the briefing notes…" she muttered, scanning through the files on her own laptop.

"No, it was something that happened about eight months ago, and hasn't been tried since," another woman explained. "We thought the only one that could pull it off was killed after that first time, since it didn't exactly end that great for the Source, so we didn't think to put it in the entry-level notes. Apparently we've got a copy-cat trying to do it again."

"Yeah, a copy-cat named Daeku," Chris inserted, expression not showing anything to hint that he created the original. Nobody knew that Chris created the original, known to him as the _Amiscuss_ _Veva_, Dumbledore realized, looking at Chris strangely. If the boy was so committed to this organization, why did he tell them so little?

"Daeku? That was him?" several alarmed voices asked, looking to Chris with wide eyes.

Chris nodded and told them what he had learned through this obvious first-time encounter. "He's definitely better at commanding than he is personally fighting, because he didn't seem too much worse than your average upper-level demon. Wasn't immune to my powers, but had incredibly fast reflexes. I think strategy and pre-planned moves are more his forte than split-second decisions. That's the only way he… kinda… won." Christopher mumbled the last part, clearly anticipating the reaction he got.

Everyone's eyes widened, this time more with amusement than surprise. "You lost?" a few voices asked. "You _actually_ _lost_?"

Chris rolled his eyes, looking annoyed. "Yes, yes, I would have lost if not for FU1's magnificent timing. It happens. Especially when the duel is after an already extensive battle with dragons. Which reminds me…"

"The dragon control team is expecting another training session with you tomorrow evening," a man slender man with curly gray hair informed Chris, as though reading his mind, but Chris shook his head.

"Cancel it, then. I've already taught them everything they need to know. It's just up to them now how they use that information. Tell them to practice together more, but that's all they can do to improve."

The man made a note of it.

"Okay," said the woman that had asked about the Volley Rampage strategy. "I'm sorry to bring this back up, but I haven't found anything in the database about it. What did you mean, the Volley Rampage didn't work out so well for the Source in the end?"

A few people exchanged looks, then let the woman who had originally answered answer this as well. Christopher still showed no signs of concern.

"Well…" she began thoughtfully. "The person that led it took two other jets and used… _ingenious_ strategic skills so that those three jets completely destroyed our last headquarters, and two other locations. They got past every defense and killed well over a hundred of us, and there weren't but a hundred left, either. Before they got to the third and last site, however, the leader broke ranks with the other two and flew back to the Source's headquarters. He… or she… completely demolished the Source's base and devastated the numbers of his followers. Haven't heard anything about it since, so we just assumed the leader was killed for his treason."

Dumbledore continued watching Christopher for a reaction, but continued getting nothing. The boy was a closed book.

…So, this teenager had killed. He had killed over a hundred innocents. And he had been tortured for refusing to sell them out again by Dumbledore's own Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. … Now Dumbledore imagined he could see what an extent of damage had been done on Christopher's morals. He killed and decided it was wrong. He turned good, and got tortured by a person that was supposed to be good for doing the right thing… It was so messed up… No wonder the child was so torn trying to accept it.

So what had happened? What had changed to give him such a sudden change of heart that he switched in the middle of battle? What had given him such a _drastic_ change of heart? …Was it enough to keep his heart changed, or would he go back?

_And_… Dumbledore wondered… _how can I help him?

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_


	6. The Thing of Potions

**Disclaimer: Use common sense. It's called FANfiction, not OWNERfiction, therefore (for the 'slower' readers) I am but a mere fan, and I own NOTHING. …Except this donut… which is very good, by the way.**

* * *

**Chapter 6: The Thing of Potions**

After discussing a few more points about how to deal with Daeku's new mission to figure out the 'Volley Rampage', the meeting was over and the leaders got up to leave.

"So, Chris," the man with curly gray hair said as they began walking out into the corridors, "what are you doing next?"

Christopher looked away from the man and shrugged. "I need to make a few alterations to the vanquishing-potion-bullets. The vial-glass cracked when the gun was fired, so it leaked a bit in the gun and in the air. After that I probably need to get back to Hogwarts."

"But it--the gun-- really worked?" the man asked, looking marginally brighter.

"Well, the potion was just a general vanquishing potion, so it wasn't strong enough for Daeku personally, but yeah, the design actually worked," Christopher almost let a smile cross his features. Almost. Dumbledore wished he would have. The boy was much too serious for such an age.

The man really did grin. "That's great!" he exclaimed. "How long do you think the alterations will take? I want to get this into mass production as soon as possible, if not sooner." He looked to Christopher, still grinning happily.

"It'll only take a few minutes. I just need to get it back from Joden and cast a spell to thicken the glass, then make a written copy of the process for you."

"Fantastic!" the gray-haired man declared. "Awesome! Let me tell you, Chris, I am glad you're on our side, 'cause I would hate having a mind like yours on _their_ side to worry about. This is great. See you in a few, then," he finished as he took a turn and Christopher kept going straight.

Christopher looked slightly perturbed, probably by the statement about where his loyalties lay, but didn't appear to let it get to him too much. He merely kept walking before coming to a set of double-doors and pushing them open. Dumbledore followed him inside to find himself in a vast cafeteria with rows upon rows of tables and benches. Of course, it was nowhere near the size of the Great Hall, but it was quite large, nonetheless.

Christopher didn't even pause in his stride, but walked right over to a table near the back, where the three who had interrupted the duel were sitting.

"Chris!" they cried out merrily upon seeing him. "You're alive!"

Chris looked at them suspiciously as he took a seat next to the vampire and across from the woman. "Was this ever in question?" he asked, taking a roll from the basket on the table and munching on it.

The young man snickered while the vampire answered, "Andrea here thought your whitelighter would be justified if she chewed you out for sending her to Valhalla again."

"Well, she would be," the woman across from Chris, now identified as Andrea, said stubbornly. "You really don't give that whitelighter enough credit."

"Oh, yes, and you're one to talk," Christopher responded, rolling his eyes dismissively. "That whitelighter has a name, you know."

Andrea blushed. "I meant… was it Lily or Lila?"

"Lily. Anyways, Joden, the gun."

The young man, Joden, reached to his side and pulled the gun out of its holster. "The bullets cracked and leaked in the gun, so you might want to get someone non-magical to clean that out before you touch it. Wouldn't want our little leader to get vanquished, now, would we?" Joden teased, handing the gun handle-outwards to Christopher, who took it and observed the sticky substance on the outside, not seeming too worried. "You know," Joden was continuing, "We heard it through the grapevine that you're going _back to school_. So, how old exactly _is_ our little leader?"

"Old enough," came the unconcerned response. Christopher wiped the vanquishing potion off with his sleeve and stored the gun in a holster at his ankle.

"Older or younger than 18?" Joden pressed, watching Christopher as though his face might hold the answer.

Chris rolled his eyes. "What do you think?"

"Well, I used to think you were either 19 or 20, but now…"

"How much do you know about the student-ages of magical kids?" Christopher asked raising his eyebrows. "How do you know we don't go to school until 20 or 25, like required college? There _is_ a lot to learn about magic…"

Joden glared. "You know, getting a straight answer out of you is like trying to win a staring contest with a wall. _It just doesn't happen like that_."

Christopher actually grinned this time, and Dumbledore felt a bit warmer inside. It was nice to see him happy about something. "How do you think I got on the to-murder list of the Source? My good looks?"

They all laughed, and Christopher got up and left with a half-wave goodbye. Dumbledore, of course, followed.

So, Halliwell had friends here. Friends that thought he was an adult and obviously treated him like one, even if they did kid around with each other a lot. The concept of people that cared about the teen did comfort the old headmaster some. It meant he wasn't completely alone and constantly treated with mistrust, which lifted a bit of the weight on Dumbledore's conscience.

They entered what looked like a training room next, where Chris made the alterations to the bullets using a few obvious spur of the moment spells, tested it, then summoned a slender, hand-held computer and existed the room, typing on it as he went.

Dumbledore trailed after him, knowing enough about modern-day computers to know that Christopher was typing the report on the gun and emailing it to the gray-haired man. After only a few moments, however, bright neon blue spherical lights appeared beside the boy and gradually dissolved into the form of Lily Potter.

Christopher didn't even look up, but commented absently, "Howdy."

"Well, hello," replied Lily, walking beside the teen. "What are you doing?"

"What does it matter?" he returned bluntly.

"…Curiosity's sake?" tried Lily, and Dumbledore didn't miss the hurt in her eyes. Why on earth was Christopher treating her like this? From what he could see, Lily was only trying to make conversation. She was just being nice…

"Well, in that case, I'm typing," Christopher deadpanned.

"I could see that," Lily deadpanned right back. She tried again. "What are you typing?"

"What does _that_ matter?"

"_Chris, when are we ever going to get past this?" _Lily finally exploded, stopping in her tracks and causing Christopher to stop and actually look up from his palmtop. _"Why won't you just talk to me?"_

"Don't you have other charges to go take care of? I know someone with the power to heal is _always_ needed… somewhere," Chris remarked coldly.

"Stop avoiding the question," Lily shot back firmly. _"Talk to me."_

"About _what_, Lily? _What_ do you want me to talk about? The weather? The war? The cafeteria food? _What?_ I don't see anything that's _changed_ that we might _need _to_ talk _about," Chris retorted icily, glaring.

"Why didn't you call me?"

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris felt his heart stop at the direct question. Knowing exactly what she was talking about but playing it off with ignorance, he demanded stonily, "Why didn't I call you _when_?"

"When do you think? Anytime during the past week! I could have helped you, Chris! _Why didn't you just call me?_ Do you think I enjoyed seeing you… seeing them… Chris, I was waiting for you to call me the _entire time _but you _never did_. _Why_?"

Chris stared at her. She had been watching? From Valhalla? How?

Instead of asking, or speaking at all, Chris merely shook his head and started walking again. He didn't want this conversation to continue. He had already talked about it today, and that would last him the rest of his life. There were only so many times one could have a conversation about being tortured…

"Chris, don't walk away from me!" she called after him, but when he ignored that, he heard her sigh and whisper, "…Why do you hate me so much? What did I do?"

He stopped. _No_. He didn't hate her. How could she think that? Of course, he didn't like her because she was overprotective, overbearing, and trying to get him to quit every bad habit she found him doing. And… she was trying to replace… she was trying to replace…

Chris couldn't even finish the thought. But he didn't hate her.

Closing his eyes, feeling the weight of her sorrow, he whispered softly, "You haven't done anything wrong."

"Then why don't you talk to me? Why didn't you call me?" Lily asked gently, though vehemently, as she went to stand beside him again. Her glittering green eyes tried to get the attention of his, but he refused to meet them.

Instead, he took a deep breath and stared hard at the wall beside him. "Because… you couldn't have done anything," he whispered. "You would have just ended up trapped with me… and he would have killed… or re-killed you… and you wouldn't have come back… Your soul would have been banished to the wastelands… for the rest of time… And I can't… I can't… not you, too…" he finished, voice cracking. He swallowed hard, fighting back tears, and stared at the floor. She would have been tortured and killed with black magic just like everyone else close to him had been… And he didn't like her, merely because he was a teenager and she acted like a parent, but she didn't deserve to be tortured to death like that. _Nobody_ deserved that…

"So… that's what happened to your family?" Lily asked quietly, concern and sympathy making her eyes swim. "The Source… the Source tortured them to death?"

Chris didn't say anything. He didn't even nod. He didn't want to and he didn't need to. She was a smart woman. She already knew the answer. He was surprised she hadn't put the pieces together before now. She had been his whitelighter for over two months.

"Is that why Prue…?" Lily began, but Chris cut her off harshly,

"I don't want to talk about her." He turned back in the direction he had been going and started walking again.

He wasn't going to talk about his last whitelighter with _this_ whitelighter. This wanna-be-perfect, wanna-be-just-as-good-as-Aunt-Prue whitelighter. He wouldn't. Lily just didn't get it. _She didn't know_.

"It's been over two months, Chris. You need to talk about what she did sometime," Lily said softly, not moving. "Pretending it never happened won't change the facts."

"The facts you _don't know_," Chris retorted, not stopping or turning around. He could feel his anger trying to take over, and a voice in the back of his head told him to just ship her back off to Valhalla, just get her out of the picture for a few weeks again. She had probably made some friends over there by now; it wouldn't be too bad an experience for her.

"Then why don't you enlighten me?" She called, the distance between them getting greater since she wouldn't move and he wasn't stopping.

"_Why don't you just ask those freaks you call bosses?" _Chris yelled back, unable to stop himself, before turning a corridor out of sight. That suggestion got Lily's attention.

She ran to catch up. "The Elders? What do they have to do with anything?" she asked, almost jogging to keep up with Chris' fast strides. He didn't look at her or even slow down, but replied icily,

"_Everything."_

Lily returned with a quizzical frown, "Chris, that doesn't make sense! Why would the Elders want Prue to kill herself? She was on their side!"

"I don't want to talk about it," Chris snapped, beginning up a flight of stairs. "If you want to know, ask _them_. And if you don't want to push hard enough to get answers, you might want to enlist your dear husband's help. He won't be afraid to use his _remarkable _persuasion skills."

Lily opened her mouth, but her mind was obviously still struggling to comprehend everything that was being said. Chris understood… sort of. Well, he remembered a time when he _would_ have understood. How was she supposed to guess the beings of good, the servants of the greater good, were really to be blamed? He knew it took some getting used to.

At last, she finally managed meekly, "Where are you going, now?"

"I haven't had access to a shower in almost a week. My hair is probably so greasy by now the water will just roll off," he said by way of explanation and walked straight through the third door at the top of the stairs without leaving a mark on it.

He wasn't surprised people hadn't instantly noticed his horribly groomed state, as most people would have in the company of someone who hadn't showered in six and a half days. He was a master at glamouring-- changing his appearance at will-- by now. However, he wasn't thinking about those facts as he walked through his apartment and into the bathroom. He was remembering how his aunt Prue would have automatically guessed what he was doing.

…_She always thought of everything_…

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Dumbledore watched his former student staring at the locked door, her mouth open slightly, obviously still struggling with everything. She, yet again, looked close to tears.

He sighed, feeling his heart aching for the girl, and sent a soft message of his presence to her, hoping, knowing, it would calm and comfort her. It was the most he could do at the moment, seeing as new bright blue sphere lights were now swirling next to her. The orblights materialized into a tall man with messy black hair and hazel eyes, almost the exact image of his sixteen year old son.

James Potter wrapped an arm around his quietly upset wife, who melted into the embrace and rested her head on his shoulder. He rubbed her back comfortingly but didn't speak. There was no need for words.

At length, Lily drew herself away, much calmer and steadier. She gave James a wry smile. "Hey, you," she murmured.

"Hey," James replied, watching her with obvious concern and love. After a moment, he sighed and went straight to it. "Lily, if he's too much, the Elders have already agreed to let us switch charges. And Sirius is getting bored with his own-- he might want a challenge, if Chris is still too mad at me from the… _incident_. You don't _have_ to keep putting up with him if he keeps treating you this way."

Lily sighed softly and closed her eyes. "It's not that, James. He really _can_ be a sweet boy, but… he's just been hurt so many times he won't let me help him, and I want to… _so badly_. It's just hard… watching him struggle all alone.-- I'll be fine, though," she added earnestly when James continued to look at her with concern.

James did the half-smile-half-grimace that Dumbledore remembered so well from the original Order of the Phoenix days . "Alright, then," he said, pulling Lily back into his arms. "You'll get through to him, Lily. I know you will. In the meantime, I'll just have to have a conversation with him about sending you to Valhalla…"

When Lily leapt back out of his arms to give him a horrified look, probably remembering the last one-on-one talk he and Chris had, he continued seriously, "He doesn't do it entirely enough. All that tight leather… weaponry…" By now, he was grinning wickedly and Lily blushed but looked slightly pleased, and Dumbledore decided it was really time to go.

He Apparated out.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

It was about twenty minutes later when Chris, clean and dressed in more black clothes that weren't sticky and smelly with sweat, decided it was time to return to Hogwarts. He didn't doubt that Dumbledore had put the wards back up, so he used his empathy to send a feeling of his presence to Dumbledore, knowing the old man would get the message.

Chris waited a moment before reaching out to Europe, approximately where Hogwarts was, to sense for the wards. They were down. He heaved a sigh, not looking forward to facing the headmaster or his students and employees again, but suppressed the feelings. There was nothing he could do about it, so why stress? He flamed into Dumbledore's office.

The man was sitting with his hands, fingers laced together, on his desk, watching Chris through half-moon spectacles. "Are you injured?" was the first question the headmaster asked.

Chris rolled his eyes, feeling the original sense of resentment towards the man again. It was as though their heart-to-heart by the lake had never happened… "They were just dragons."

Dumbledore, noticing the change-- or lack of change-- in Chris' behavior towards him, stated, "I see. So, if all is well, I suggest you get to class. You missed the duration of Defense Against the Dark Arts and about half of Double Potions."

"Where is that?"

"Potions is in the Dungeons."

"_Dungeons in a school? What the hell, man?!"_ Chris demanded, feeling a sense of horror spring to life in him. Dungeons. Wyatt, always the theatric one, held captives in dungeons. He tortured the captives in the dungeons.

Chris didn't like dungeons.

"Dungeons only in name, Christopher," Dumbledore replied gently, and Chris felt his heart prick painfully when he realized the old man had sensed his fear. _Damn it, the pity is going to come next_, Chris thought, angry with himself for letting his emotions show, yet again. If he didn't watch out, this man would feel a need to start looking out for him, and people in positions of guardians to Chris always… Well, they never ended up thankful that they had, be it Chris' rebellious attitude, or Chris' satanic brother.

"They are below the first floor."

The way he was looking at Chris, almost openly concerned, made the boy glare in response.

"Thank you," he deadpanned and walked out of the circular office, closing the door firmly behind him.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

It was a few minutes later when Chris found himself knocking on the door to the dungeon classroom. There was a call of, "Come in!" from inside, and Chris did so.

He was immediately met with the sight of a bluish steam that filled the room, and a man that he first mistook for a walrus. The man was huge-- and Chris even hesitated to use _that_ word for fear of a dangerous understatement. His waistcoat was filled to the very seams with his enormous amount of fat, and the buttons seemed to want to escape the strain by flying away at any moment. He was rather short for a full grown man, only about as tall as Chris himself, and he had a great, curving mustache. And, for some reason, he seemed vaguely… _vaguely_ familiar…

"Ah, the Headmaster did mention we might be receiving a new student today," the man remarked jovially. "Come in, come in. Now, tell me, what's your name, son?"

"Chris…" Chris replied slowly, trying to remember where he'd seen this man and hesitant to give a last name in case the man recognized him first... He got the feeling it had been years ago…

"Chris, any last name to speak of?" the Professor grinned at him, apparently thinking of Chris as merely forgetful.

Chris hesitated even more, but finally decided to just get it over with. Dumbledore would tell the man, anyway. "Halliwell."

There were two gasps. One was obviously from the round professor, but the other was from the direction of the class, which Chris had completely forgotten was listening in. It was the girl with the bushy brown hair and cinnamon eyes-- Hermione. Both the professor's and her eyes had gone as round as saucers.

"_Halliwell?"_ repeated the man, looking at Chris in absolute awe. "You couldn't _possibly_ be related to the legendary Halliwell sisters, could you? _The_ _Charmed Ones?"_

"Yes, I could possibly be," came the dry response. He hated when people stated what couldn't be, because they were usually wrong and they knew it.

"Merlin's beard," the wizard breathed, looking positively awestruck and delightedly so. "The son of a Charmed One, right here! Tell me, m'boy, which of the sisters is your mother?" He looked ready to leap on Chris in pure excitement. Chris mutely wondered if the man would wet his pants.

"…Piper."

"Piper!" He exclaimed as if that had been the best choice. He looked to the heavens before continuing, "The eldest-- after the late Prudence, of course-- and most powerful! Not to mention the most beautiful, in my opinion, although they were all rather gorgeous women. My word, you look exactly like her! -With your father's eyes, of course. Oho, what a time we all had talking about _that_ marriage! Romantic to the highest degree. We had drinks after the convention to talk about it. The convention! _Aha_, I remember you, now!"

"The convention?" Chris repeated, hearing a bell ringing in his head at the mention of it. Then it dawned on him. "Oh… that place, with the… yeah… I remember you, now." They had met at a magical convention in which he, his twin Jessica (his heart clenched at the thought of her), and Wyatt had gone to at the urging of their Aunt Phoebe, who thought the wonderful multi-cultural experience needed to be shared with the next generation of Halliwells.

"Dear me, you were just-- what?-- nine years old-- as was your twin, of course. Where is she? Oh, probably got into Beauxbatons, that one." Chris didn't answer, couldn't answer because his throat had suddenly become very tight, but the professor, whom he now recalled as being named Slughorn, continued anyway, "What a time, what a time we had! And when the demons attacked… spectacular!"

"Demons?" someone from the class queried, looking alarmed. Chris was now _very_ aware that they were all listening, letting their potions simmer, forgotten. He could recall that this man was quite a talker, when he got to recounting memories. _Oh, great… Am I going to need to need to knock his fat-ass out? _

**_Chris!_** He heard a familiar voice admonish him, and he almost cringed. He did every time he heard that voice, remembering how she had been such a part of his life that his conscience gradually just took on her voice… remembering how she had been killed in the crossfire of the war…

"Yes, demons! His mother and aunts vanquished them before anyone was killed, thank goodness!" Slughorn praised, still looking elated. "Though it was probably just second nature to them; his mother told me how they get attacked by demons every week!" He looked to Chris for assertion, here, and Chris, not really listening anymore, mumbled,

"Sure…"

Present tense. Slughorn didn't know that they were all dead, so he continued talking about them as if he were going to go have drinks with them later that day. … And Chris couldn't bring himself to inform the man, right here in front of the entire class, that the people he so admired were gone and were not coming back. It was better, easier, to just go with the lie.

Slughorn chuckled heartily and threw an arm around Chris so suddenly Chris' reaction was to use his intangibility to phaze out of the embrace, which caused Slughorn to look momentarily surprised, then laugh. He ruffled the boy's hair, which caused Chris to take yet another step back. Slughorn laughed again and said cheerily, "Get back there with Harry and Miss Granger! They'll be delighted to get you up to date on the potion we're making-- go on, off you go!"

Slightly taken aback by the abrupt order, but grateful to get out of the man's clutches, Chris hurried to the back of the room where Harry and Hermione were sitting, along with the red-haired one he remembered being named Ron, and someone he didn't recognize at all.

Slughorn was still watching him, so he sat down and turned to Hermione, who seemed the least likely to start an argument with him, and whispered (the class was completely silent as they went back to their potions), "What are we doing?"

Hermione, still looking extremely fascinated with him and his heritage, had to blink a few times before she could properly answer. "Draught of the Living Death," she whispered back. "You can get the materials from the school cupboard; come on."

She personally got up and led him to the back and began handing him things from the storeroom before he could even ask.

When they got back to the table, he found Harry and Ron casting him suspicious looks every so often, which felt like tiny claws underneath his skin, annoying him. He hadn't even said anything to them! But he did notice something, when he caught Harry glancing at him; Harry definitely had his mother's eyes. And the rest of him looked so much like James Potter it was creepy… and made Chris marginally uncomfortable.

…

He set up his cauldron over the burner and glanced at the book Hermione had handed him. Since his mother had never allowed him to use magic, he had always been the one making the potions (somewhat discreetly since he didn't know exactly if she considered potions as magic), and it had always come naturally. Therefore, he knew the ingredients were mostly accurate, as in, they would probably work towards the desired effect (he had never specifically made Draught of the Living Death), but the directions were crap. No potion could be made using _only_ one-direction stirs. _Duh_.

Rolling his eyes, he prepared the ingredients and began the potion according to his own knowledge. About five minutes later, he heard Hermione demand of Harry, "How are you doing that?"

Chris glanced up. Harry's was getting lighter, as it was supposed to, but Hermione's remained stubbornly dark purple.

"Add a clockwise stir--" Harry began.

"No, no, the book says counterclockwise!" she snapped, cutting him off.

Chris briefly wondered if he should inform her that Harry was right, but he decided he didn't want to get on the bad side of the one person that was trying to help him fit in.

Harry just shrugged and turned back to his own potion.

…

The class was coming close to an end, and Chris was contemplating how on earth his had turned dark green when it was supposed to be water-clear. He didn't think he had done anything wrong… He ran over a mental checklist of ingredients… and could have slapped himself.

He stood, not noticing the trio look up, and went to the supply cabinet. He took a pixie tooth out of a bottle and went back to the table, where Hermione immediately said, "There was no pixie tooth in the instructions."

"I know," he responded, tossing it in. "But I forgot to add the sopophorous bean."

"…So adding a pixie tooth will make up for it?" asked Hermione, clearly wondering for his sanity, but watching intently as he gave the potion a downward stir and it immediately began swirling lighter shades. She blinked.

He smiled slightly. "Pixies only eat sopophorous beans, so there will obviously be residue on their teeth, and the teeth already have certain properties that will eliminate the problem of putting it in out of order."

There was a pause, and then Hermione, still watching the potion swirl on its own until it turned clear, muttered simply, "Wow."

"And time's… up!" called Slughorn. "Stop stirring, please!"

They waited as Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons without commenting. At length, he reached the table where Harry, Ron, Hermione, the strange badger-emblem-bearing boy whose name was Ernie, and Chris were sitting.

The professor smiled ruefully at the tar-like substance in Ron's cauldron, passed over Ernie's navy-blue concoction, and gave an approving nod to Hermione's light pink potion. When he glanced at Harry's and Chris', however, a look of incredulous delight spread over his face.

"Two perfect potions!" he cried to the dungeon. "Excellent, excellent! Brilliant work, boys, brilliant work! Good lord, it's clear you've both inherited your mothers' talent at potions! Lily was a dab hand, she was, and Piper… I've heard great things about Piper in this art! Brilliant…! Class dismissed!"

"How did you do that?" Chris heard Ron whisper to Harry as the class began putting their materials up.

Harry glanced around, saw Chris and Draco nearby, and said shortly, "Got lucky, I suppose."

"So you're usually not great at potions?" Chris forced himself to ask casually, remembering his promise to Dumbledore that he'd be pleasant.

Hermione snorted, obviously bitter because her potion hadn't been up to par, and Ron laughed outright. That answered his question.

Before he had time to say anything about that, a cold, drawling voice hissed as it passed by, "Better watch your back, Halliwell."

Chris arched an eyebrow as he turned to see Draco Malfoy leaving the classroom in a gust of billowing black robes and cold anger.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had heard.

"What's his deal with you?" Hermione asked, having not heard his answer to Harry and Ron's same question earlier.

Chris just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Hermione gave him a severe look, then pressed, "Okay… so what do you have against Professor Snape? Why-- and _how--_ did you throw him through a door?"

"Uh, _magic_," Chris answered the last question in a _no-duh _voice, but he was smiling absentmindedly at the memory.

Harry and Ron chuckled.

Had they gotten over their suspicion of him? Chris wondered vaguely, but further musing was forgotten as Ron remarked, grinning, "Harry just got detention with him, earlier."

Chris arched an amused eyebrow at Harry and asked, "What for?"

"I said 'yes'," Harry explained, seemingly unable to stop himself from retelling the story personally. He was grinning. "He said--correcting me-- 'Yes, _sir'_ so I told him there was no need to call me sir."

Chris laughed and commented, "Nice."

Hermione just sighed, obviously not impressed with what her friend had done. She then turned to Chris, a bright light in her eyes that made Chris shift uncomfortably, and said in an awed voice, "So, you're a _Halliwell_? I've read so much about your family! What's it like?"

Harry and Ron stopped grinning about Snape's detention to listen. Chris shifted uncomfortably. "Um… well…"

"What _are_ the Charmed Ones?" Ron interrupted Chris' floundering to ask.

Hermione instantly answered, "They're three sister witches in America that were prophesized about since the stone age. They're the most powerful force of good there is, and they use that power to fight demons."

"And what exactly _are_ demons?" Harry inquired, examining Chris with renewed interest. His mother was a part of the most powerful good in existence? Did that automatically make him good, too? If so, why did he dress in all black, and why did he dislike Dumbledore? But he also, clearly, disliked Snape and Malfoy…

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but stopped short, a slight frown on her lips. "Well, they're evil, obviously… but that's about all I know for sure." She looked to Chris, as did both Harry and Ron.

"Yeah, they're evil," Chris confirmed, amused by the simplicity of Hermione's description. "Unless they mate with humans or witches, they're hatched from eggs and they have no everlasting soul. They usually have no conscience, and they basically live-- for centuries, I might add-- to gain power, kill, torture, annoy… You know. They're typical bad guys," he finished with a shrug.

"And your family rids the world of them?" rephrased Ron, looking dubious.

Chris snorted, but it was a humorless sound. "If we were going to rid the world of demons, we might as well try ridding the world of ants, next. What do we do after the last class?" He asked, abruptly changing subjects.

"Wha--? Oh. We either go back to the common room or we go eat dinner," Hermione supplied, blinking in regards to the sudden end of the previous conversation. She obviously still had more questions.

Knowing that, Chris intentionally kept directing the new conversation. "So where's the common room? I haven't been there, yet."

It did no harm to tell them what demons were; it might actually do them good if, or _when_, they came in contact with one, so that they wouldn't try and start friendly conversation and suddenly find themselves dead. But he wasn't going to start a monologue about his childhood, and he wasn't going to start making up crap about still living in the Halliwell Manor with his family, fighting demons, saving the world, side-by-side. That had never really been the case with him, anyway, and he wasn't going to lie flat out just to humor their thirst for tales of heroism. He didn't care _that _much about befriending them.

"Oh… well then, follow us," said Hermione, still looking put off, interrupted from interrogating him. She, Harry, and Ron slung their bags over their shoulders and led the way out.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

_Harry knelt, though his head was still held high as he watched his superior, a young man with shoulder-length curly blonde hair and piercing, cold turquoise eyes, stride around the vast fire-lit cavern in restless, barely suppressed fury. _

_At last he stopped, directly in front of Harry, and turned to him, his bone chillingly cold eyes glaring mercilessly into Harry's. "It's been well over twenty-four hours, Riddle," the young man hissed, those eyes flashing dangerously black. He made as though to step towards Harry, but was suddenly already inches from Harry's face, and Harry could feel the man's anger like radiation, almost literally scalding his flesh in waves of intensity. _"I want my brother back-- **do you understand me**_?"_

_Harry lowered his gaze obediently, though his insides boiled with self-disgust at the action, and he forced himself to intone, "Yes, my lord."_

_The young man had resumed his pacing, but spared a glance-- or glare-- in Harry's direction. He merely replied, "Good," and Harry found himself consumed in heat before reappearing in a dank tunnel outside the cavern. Harry's lips twitched as he felt resentment for the blonde's style of dismissal, and he reached into his robe pocket for his wand only to realize… his fingers. Long, pale, spidery…_

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry Potter snapped awake, sitting bolt up in bed, his scar searing on his forehead, which was pearled and dripping with cold sweat. He felt nauseous, but as soon as he staggered out of bed to go to the bathroom, the ceiling met the floor.

Lying, cheek against the floor, Harry concentrated on breathing. His breath had been coming in labored pants since the dream-- _the_ _vision_. He had had another vision of Voldemort… but what on earth? Voldemort… no… Why had he been subservient? That had to have been a dream. Voldemort was second to no one…

Sounds of struggling brought Harry out of his deliberating. It was coming from Chris' bed.

Carefully, feeling a massive headache coming on, Harry forced himself to his feet and stumbled over to the new bed. The user was obviously awake, so Harry called quietly, "Chris?"

There was a slight pause, and then a somewhat strained voice responded, "Hiya, Harry. Um… I need a little… _help_."

Whatever Harry had been expecting to find when he opened the curtains, it wasn't Chris sitting up, awake (as though he hadn't slept at all), with his hands _pierced_ to the headboard behind/above him with a dagger, and thick crimson blood streaming slowly down his pallid arms.

Yet that was exactly what he did find.

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Please review! 


	7. Of Crappy Poisons and Occlumency

**DisclaimerI don't own Charmed or Harry Potter, and I make no profit by using the characters. But one of these days… ((returns to assassination of rightful-owner plots)) … No, wait. I don't want to kill Rowling until she finishes the last book… ((puts off assassination plots for a few months))**

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Chapter 7: Of Crappy Poisons and Occlumency**

_Whatever Harry had been expecting to find when he opened the curtains, it wasn't Chris sitting up, awake (as though he hadn't slept at all), with his hands pierced to the headboard behind/above him with a dagger, and thick crimson blood streaming slowly down his pallid arms._

_Yet that was exactly what he did find._

"Oh my God," Harry gasped. "What happened?"

"Um… could you pull the dagger out?" Chris asked in that same strained voice, and now Harry knew it was from suppressed pain. "I would, but I don't exactly have a free hand."

Harry felt his stomach lurch, but pushed that thought aside. It had to be done, and, if helping Chris meant he'd be more compelled to answer questions, then more the better, because Harry wanted answers.

He leaned forward and, grimacing, grasped the hilt. He barely even noticed Chris brace himself, the movement was so subtle, just before he tore it out.

Chris inhaled sharply through his teeth and held his ripped and bloody hands in front of him, observing the damage as warm crimson splashed down onto his sheets. His expression, in Harry's opinion, was far too neutral to imply that this was an unexpected and unprovoked action against him.

Therefore, slightly suspicious again, Harry glanced around the area Chris was sitting for clues as to what he'd been doing and found an opened book on his bed; it looked like a book of historic battle strategies, judging from the names and diagrams. (_Had he really been **reading** that? **Why**?_) And on top of that, a curled piece of parchment was perched. He frowned, trying to make out what it said without opening it.

Chris, who had obviously noticed where Harry's attention had been drawn, peered in that direction, too, and was likewise perplexed. He leaned forward and picked the note up, careful to keep the flow of blood off it. Harry read over his shoulder.

_Welcome to Hogwarts, Christopher. _

_Because I'm in a generous mood, I'll make you a deal: you leave and I won't tell my father you were ever here. If you stay, that information may just slip… all the way to the Dark Lord's ears._

_With Love and Consideration,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_PS, How do you like my cute little wand, now?_

Harry stared, beginning to read it over, while Chris rolled his eyes and made a noise similar to a growl and crumpled it up before Harry could finish.

Harry continued to stare, but now at Chris, and finally demanded, "What was _that_ about? _What the bloody hell **happened**_?"

"Shh!" Chris scolded half-heartedly, making a vague gesture towards their sleeping classmates as he picked a piece of paper out of the bag he still hadn't unpacked.

He scribbled a short reply on it, but Harry couldn't read his handwriting, it was so sloppy from torn hand muscles and blood splotches. When he finished, he chanted something under his breath that sounded a lot like… a poem. The paper vanished in a whiff of smoke and Harry stared at him more demandingly than ever.

"Feel like explaining any of that to me, _now_?" he asked dryly, crossing his arms.

"Well, Draco Malfoy's an ass," Chris commented as if that explained everything.

"You're saying he got into our dorm room and knifed you to the headboard without waking any of us up?" Harry shot back skeptically, tapping his foot slowly and feeling every part the calmly unimpressed professor. Maybe he had learned something from McGonagall after all.

"No," Chris finally replied seriously as he studied his hands again, experimentally testing the fingers and wincing. "He conjured the dagger and did some other spell that raised my hands to the headboard, and then the knife went in. I never would have guessed he could perform magic like that from such a distance," he added, more to himself than to Harry.

"So that's what the PS was about," Harry mused to himself. Malfoy hadn't been in the Gryffindor house at all; he had just learned how to perform long-distance magic over the summer.

Seeing as Chris didn't seem surprised or offended to hear that he'd been reading over his shoulder, Harry took advantage of that mood and pressed, "So why would Voldemort be interested to know that you're here? What does he have to do with you?"

"Voldemort is _also_ an ass and likes to think he knows everything," Chris responded dismissively, then asked, "Where's the infirmary?"

"You didn't answer my question," Harry stated bluntly.

"I know," Chris returned just as bluntly. When Harry continued to give him a rather pointed glare, Chris rolled his eyes and said, "You'll either have to forgive me for not spilling my life's story to people I've just met, or you'll have to make an enemy of me, because I'm not changing that policy, now. Please just tell me where the infirmary is."

Harry considered him for a moment. Could he really blame the guy for wanting to keep strangers out of his business? Especially when that business involved history with the Dark Lord himself…? Harry briefly wished he had that luxury, but in the end, decided he couldn't hold it against someone that actually did.

He sighed and walked back over to his bed, digging his shoes out from under his bed, and he saw Chris start to do the same, taking the hint. Harry pulled a dressing gown over his nightshirt and Chris put on a knee-length jacket over his pajamas, grimacing faintly as blood streaked the sleeves.

Harry pocketed his wand and led the way out of the dormitory.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris followed, wishing he could just call his whitelighter to heal him and avoid all the fuss he knew this would make. However, he had remembered the anti-teleportation wards all around the school grounds and managed to restrain himself from yelling Harry's dead mother's name at the ceiling.

Harry's mother… Should he tell Lily that he was now going to school with her son? What would that change? She would definitely tell her husband, James, and there was no way Chris would have a moment of peace with either of them afterwards without them begging to know every detail of everything that happened… everyday… from then onward…

What if they wanted to warn Harry to stay away from him? What if they thought he was too much trouble… that he'd only get Harry hurt in the crossfire between him and his numerous enemies?

What if… what if he told Harry? Would Harry want to see them? He had only been a year old when they were killed… Of course he'd want to see them, and that was strictly forbidden by the Elders. Did Chris dare cross the Elders again? After what they did to Prue… What if that happened to Harry or Lily or, heck, even James? As much as Chris pretended he didn't like those people (okay, so he wasn't _too_ bad to Harry), he didn't know if he could survive seeing any of them hurt…

Feeling a twist of guilt knot his heart, Chris consciously buried the thoughts. He'd just hold his tongue for the present. No one needed the drama of a family reunion at the moment. Not when he was so busy worrying about the Death Eaters' children at Hogwarts. His threat to Draco wouldn't keep them all at bay for long. He doubted if he even had days before one of them spilled to their parents, and in turn, Voldemort. …Possibly even, in turn, to Chris' dear brother. More than possibly. If Chris knew Wyatt, then Wyatt was extending all of his resources to find his rogue little brother… he'd know the instant Voldemort did, if not sooner.

Chris absentmindedly raked his fingers through his hair, feeling stress closing in on him from all angles like a claustrophobic person locked in a closet. How long would it be until he was fighting for his life against his own brother, again? How long until he was fighting for these _kids_' lives when the demons and Death Eaters inevitably struck?

Then Chris swore violently when he realized what he was doing. Harry turned to stare, puzzled.

"I just got blood all in my hair," Chris said flatly, frowning at the white locks now turned blotchy crimson-scarlet. He grinned suddenly. "I wonder if blood stains hair like it does clothes…?"

Harry apparently tried to stop himself from laughing, but failed. "Are you _insane_? You want to _dye_ your hair red with _your own blood_?"

"Not all my hair," said Chris defensively, but he was still smiling, amused, as he surveyed the effects on his white hair. "Just this white part. I tried regular dye, potion dye, and even glamour, but nothing's worked…"

"You don't like it?" Harry's grin slid off his face as he watched Chris curiously.

Chris shook his head slightly. "Makes me immediately stick out in a crowd, makes people label me as a freak with a traumatizing life, and makes me very identifiable-- and accountable-- for everything I do. I hate it."

Harry nodded understandingly, and asked cautiously, "So how _did_ it happen?"

Chris smirked and asked, "Did you miss the 'traumatizing' part in 'traumatizing life'?"

Harry glared at him, but the anger-effect was lost on Chris by the light-hearted twinkle in the Harry's eyes. So he hadn't really expected a serious answer…

_This kid catches on fast_, Chris mused and quietly shook his head, grinning. Maybe Harry wouldn't be as caught up on interrogating him as his parents were. However, something told Chris not to get his hopes up.

They made their way through the dark corridors by the light of Harry's wand, and within a few minutes were standing outside of a heavy oak door, brighter light spilling through the crack under the door.

"That's strange," Harry murmured, as he reached for the door handle. "Madam Pomfrey usually goes to bed around eleven…"

He swung the door open and they came face-to-face with two wide-awake adults-- a sturdy nurse and a deranged Headmaster.

Dumbledore looked up pleasantly from his conversation with Madam Pomfrey and stated, "I see I am not the only one who thought it was a nice night for a stroll to the hospital wing. --Mr. Halliwell, if you could go ahead and let Madam Pomfrey see you hands. She needs to check for any curses before she can mend them," he added, but unnecessarily, as the nurse was already bustling over Chris, pulling his hands out and twisting his arms to suit her convenience. Chris chose to ignore the bursts of pain that came from the odd positions she arranged his arms and wrists in.

"No curses, but there was a bit of poorly concocted _Kninnik_ poison on the tip," Chris commented, and wasn't surprised when the nurse merely ignored his 'opinion' and continued muttering spells checking for curses. However, Dumbledore looked intrigued.

"You are not feeling the effects?"

Chris shrugged, which was harder to do than it seemed, with that woman pulling and turning his arms all over the place. "Like I said, it was really poorly made. I only recognized it by the color of the residue coupled with a bit of dizziness that wasn't just the blood loss."

"I see," Dumbledore looked pensive. "At any rate, I shall fetch the antidote, in case the symptoms are only delayed."

"You keep a stock of _Kninnik_ antidote at this place?" Chris asked incredulously. "Dear God, how often do you have students throwing this stuff at each other?!"

"Do you have any idea how the particular student that did this to you got a hold of your blood to make the poison?" Dumbledore queried instead of answering, and Chris got the distinct impression he knew exactly which student had done this.

Chris gave him a calculating look, wondering how on earth this man knew so much, then replied tonelessly, "It wouldn't have been hard."

He took a slight bit of comfort in the knowledge that Dumbledore surely didn't know what he meant by _that_. And the headmaster didn't, he couldn't have, but he didn't ask. He just gave Chris a thoughtful look and disappeared into the back of the infirmary, sifting through the antidote cabinet.

"Okay, what is this nick-it stuff?" Harry asked, looking as though he had been about to burst if he held the question in any longer.

"_Kninnik_," Chris corrected absently, stumbling then glaring at the nurse as she had tried to twist his arm rather forcefully in a way that it just _would not _go. "It's a poison that is supposed to disorient the victim-- permanently. Like, the room is spinning at a hundred miles per hour and the floor is like a boat in rough seas kind of disorient. The victim usually dies of starvation in their bed because they're too dizzy to stand up and go eat, and too dizzy to hold a fork, even if they could get up. A good potion of the stuff is irreversible, but luckily, not a lot of people are that good at making blood potions."

"Er… blood potions?" Harry asked, and Chris empathically felt his embarrassment at knowing so little of what Chris was talking about.

"They're potions make using the intended victim's blood," Chris explained without mocking his ignorance, as he probably would have done to any one of his friends at the Resistance. "Whereas some potions are blessed by blood, others are cursed-- _of sorts_," he added when Madam Pomfrey made as though to cluck about being right about the curse part. He rolled his eyes at her look of indignation and Harry asked, completely bewildered,

"So how does the potion know if it's being blessed or cursed? Does that change the potion or anything?"

"Well, usually it's called a blessed potion if it's being used on a being of evil to destroy them, or if it's being used to protect someone or something. In that case, it isn't considered dark magic. But when a potion is using blood to hurt a person working for good, it's cursed, and it's dark magic, which usually condemns both souls to eternal hell after they die. The blessed and cursed part is really just point-of-view."

"What?! You and Malfoy are both going to Hell, now?" Harry gasped, horror-struck, but Chris rolled his eyes. Again.

"How many times have I said the potion was crap? It's only the good brewers that can achieve that particular side effect." The last words almost hurt coming out, especially when Chris realized how cold and unfeeling they sounded.

"Mr. Halliwell, I would appreciate it if you stop putting such notions into Mr. Potter's head," Madam Pomfrey snapped, seemingly done turning and yanking Chris' arms and wrists. She tapped his hands with her wand, muttering something in Latin, and the skin slowly began knitting itself back together. "Especially at this hour of night."

"What?" Chris smirked, despite the fact that he was inwardly feeling cold for some reason. "Are you afraid he'll have nightmares or something?"

He touched his hands and winced. They were incredibly tender and sore, but he kept it to himself, of course.

"Not everyone has such nonchalance about the idea of eternal damnation," she said rather coldly, and Chris felt the words stab him like a splinter in the heart.

Before he could stop himself, he gave her a look that could only be described as eerie, and muttered, "Nonchalance. _Right_."

She blinked, clearly surprised at that sardonic tone, but before either she or Harry could comment on it, Dumbledore was back and pressing a vial into Chris' hands.

Chris looked at it briefly before undoing the top and downing its contents.

"Mr. Halliwell, Mr. Potter, I hope you both have pleasant dreams," Dumbledore said by way of dismissing them as he took the vial back.

They got the point and gave their 'goodnights' then turned to leave.

"And Mr. Halliwell," Dumbledore added as he and Harry reached the door. Chris turned and arched an eyebrow expectantly. "Tea in my office tomorrow night-- or tonight, rather-- at eight."

Chris just stared at him for a moment before turning and leaving. A bewildered Harry hesitated in the doorway before following in his wake.

"Chris, what's your problem with Dumbledore?" Harry inquired as soon as they were out of sight of the infirmary. Apparently having been denied the first time he'd asked didn't stop him from asking again.

Chris shook his head distractedly. "He's just a manipulative old bat. Besides that, nothing, really."

"…Manipulative… old… bat…" Harry repeated shortly, tasting the words on his tongue. No. They didn't go together in accordance to Dumbledore. Not at all. _"Why?"_

"Many reasons on many levels."

"Are you _trying_ to be infuriately vague?"

"Oh, believe me, I really am," Chris grinned.

Harry was the one to roll his eyes this time. Then he remembered something else he was going to ask. "How do you know so much about blood potions? So much about _potions_?"

"Dude, I grew up with the Charmed Ones," Chris said with a slight snort. "They were always brewing some potion or blessing some other potion… After sixteen years, a kid starts to catch on. Especially when the aforementioned Charmed Ones are kidnapped and its up to their young children to save them."

Harry blinked, processing that information. "Sounds exciting," he remarked honestly. It sounded much better than living with the Dursleys.

Chris shrugged. "Well, it… _isn't…_ boring… but I don't know if exciting is the word I'd use. Kinda gets old… _really_ old… after a while… you know… _years_."

Harry nodded. "Yeah… I could see that. You know, Hogwarts is never a boring place, either."

Chris smirked again. "You know, I was actually starting to get that impression, myself."

Harry snorted, and they continued walking in silence for a while. They were almost to the portrait of the slumbering Fat Lady when a thought randomly struck Chris. Something he had been going to ask but he'd forgotten.

"Hey, Harry, what made you wake up? You practically fell out of your bed."

Harry instantly stopped, swearing vehemently. At Chris' confused look, he elaborated, "Um… vision… I was going to ask Dumbledore about it but I forgot about it with the whole 'you' thing going on…"

"Vision?"

"Vision…"

Harry took another moment to swear before turning around and heading back the way they'd come. Chris frowned at the Potter's eloquence then jogged to catch up with him.

"You have visions?"

"Erm… more like dreams… of things that are already happening," Harry explained choppily, clearly not liking how the tables had turned on him. Chris couldn't help the smug smirk that fleeted across his lips. "And they're only tied to one person… Voldemort."

Needless to say, Chris was serious again. "You saw what Voldemort's doing now?"

"Well, I saw what he was doing before I woke up, oh, say, twenty minutes ago."

"Jee, I'm sorry for wasting time. I'll have to have a word with Draco about his timing," came the sarcastic response accompanied by an eye roll.

"_Draco_?" Harry repeated, clearly disgusted. "You two really do have history, then, don't you?"

"Did you think I was lying when I said I did?" Chris shot back, only mildly offended. He got that kind of display of trust too often to really care, anymore. It didn't really matter, anyway.

"Look, right now I couldn't care less about Draco Malfoy. I just need to tell Dumbledore about the vision. He'll know what to do."

Chris suppressed his skepticism at this, and just continued striding quickly to keep up with the black haired youth.

They barged back into the infirmary only seconds later to find that Dumbledore was already waiting for them. _Again_. Madam Pomfrey seemed to have gone to bed.

"Boys. What can I do for you, now?" he asked lightly, inviting them to sit in the other two chairs next to the empty hospital bed he sat at the foot of.

"Sir, I just remembered," Harry began, slightly breathless from his quick walking pace. "I had another vision. About Voldemort."

Though Dumbledore didn't look surprised, he appeared to be listening more seriously. "Indeed?"

"Yes, sir. He was talking to someone; I didn't catch a name, but Voldemort was acting like he was a servant to this man. And the man… Voldemort didn't like him, but he was afraid of him, so he was calling him 'my lord' and kneeling and everything. The other man was furious, he was looking for… for someone. I don't remember who, but that's not important. Sir, there's someone more powerful-- more _evil_ than Voldemort, and they're working together."

Dumbledore and Chris shared a look, and Chris felt his heart noticeably drop as the impact of Harry's words sank in.

"Do you think it is him?" Dumbledore asked quietly, but clearly.

Chris nodded, not meeting his gaze. "There's not anyone else, unless Daeku developed a megalomania-complex. Harry, do you happen to remember what the man looked like?"

Harry frowned, concentrating on the remnants of the memory. It was slowly starting to slip away, like ashes through fingers. But… "Blonde, I think. And… and cold, very cold blue eyes."

Chris nodded, still not looking at Dumbledore or Harry. "Yeah, that's him."

"Who?" Harry asked as Dumbledore sighed softly and Chris found the pattern on the floor more intriguing than ever.

"The Source," answered Dumbledore, looking back to him.

Harry frowned. "The source? Of what?"

"Of all evil," muttered Chris, leaning back in his chair in a subconscious move of weariness, but still refusing to meet their eyes. The Source was looking for him (there was no doubt in his mind that it was him), and he was so pissed Voldemort was back to kneeling and flattery in order to keep him pacified… to an extent. Chris' brother was never wholly pacified.

"And you don't remember who the Source was looking for?" Dumbledore questioned, studying Harry.

Harry raked his brain even harder for every detail of that memory. Slightly frustrated with himself for not remembering more, he replied slowly, "Someone… he thought… belonged to him in some way. He used 'my'. Like… I dunno. My enemy, my friend, my slave… I just… I don't remember."

_Someone he thought belonged to him_, Chris repeated in his thoughts and suppressed a mirthless snort. Harry had no idea how right he was.

Chris felt Dumbledore's eyes turn back on him, so he forced himself to look up and meet the silently querying gaze.

_He's looking for you? _Dumbledore's unasked question hung in the air between them.

Chris' expression very clearly said, _Duh._

Dumbledore nodded briefly, taking that into consideration as he contemplated his steepled fingers. The two boys waited silently for his next move.

At length, he began, "Harry… I would like you to resume your Occlumency lessons--"

"Professor!" Harry instantly blurted, aghast, before he could stop himself, and Chris asked, confused,

"Occlumency?"

There was a pause as Dumbledore let the beginning of this talk settle, then answered Chris' question in quite untroubled tones, "Occlumency is the defense of the mind against external penetration. It is a rather obscure branch of magic usually not taught in this school, but Professor Snape gave Harry private lessons last year when Harry made frequent wanderings into Lord Voldemort's mind, and vice versa."

"Snape?" Chris repeated flatly, seemingly more concerned about that part of the explanation than the fact that Harry and the Dark Lord shared an uncontrolled mental connection.

"Yes, Professor Snape," Dumbledore confirmed, and there was a slightly… _expectant_ look in his eyes, now, as he watched Chris.

Chris noticed, and bright green eyes narrowed. "You're not seriously asking what I think you're asking," he stated, cold once more.

Harry looked between them, obviously lost. "What?"

"Christopher…" Dumbledore started, speaking to Harry while keeping Chris in his peripheral vision, "as I have neglected to mention thus far, is quite a superb Occlumens, himself. Perhaps, if you absolutely refuse to return to Professor Snape… and as Christopher does not approve of that, either…"

Chris was all out glaring, at this point, and Harry just looked baffled. "Even if I did agree to it, I don't know _how_ to teach what I can do."

"Snape used Legilimency and told me to clear my mind. That's all," Harry offered, still looking as though he hadn't grasped all of what was going on, but he was catching up.

"Legilimency?" Chris repeated, arching an eyebrow. The word sounded familiar… something like one of the spells Voldemort had uttered, trying to knock down the walls around Chris' mind. _Legilimens_…

"The ability to extract feelings and memories from another person's mind," Dumbledore inserted, knowingly or unknowingly quoting Snape's definition. "I believe you possess two powers that could be combined to work towards such ends?"

Chris gave him a calculating look and asked, "How do you know about my power over memories?" It was obvious how Dumbledore knew about his empath power, but Chris couldn't recall mentioning or using his ability to observe others' memories.

Dumbledore just smiled. Chris glared yet again. "_Even so_," Chris stressed this line again, "I don't want to get inside Harry's head. Do you have any idea how much an invasion of privacy that is?" He paused to scoff, then finished cynically, "No, wait. Never mind. Look who I'm talking to."

"I thought we discussed this," Dumbledore returned jadedly, lacing his fingers together in his lap.

"You blamed your lack of control over your _curiosity_ on senility and changed the subject," Chris snapped icily. "What a real talk that was."

"Then we shall finish discussing it later today over tea," Dumbledore replied and neither of the boys missed the note of severity in his voice.

Chris arched an eyebrow, but let the subject rest for the present.

"So, in regards to Harry's teacher…?" Dumbledore let the sentence hang, and Chris squirmed uncomfortably.

He could not describe how much he hated people forcing their way into his mind and raping him of that privacy inside his own head… He didn't think he could do that to another person; not when he understood exactly how much it would affect them…

_But Snape._

How could he let Harry go back into that man's control, giving _him_ the right to mess around inside Harry's mind? Putting _him_ in that position of power?

Chris shuddered. He couldn't imagine how he'd be able to live with himself, knowing that he'd had the power to spare someone (it didn't matter who) from that man, but had chosen not to because he was too respectful for their privacy. Snape damn sure wasn't going to give Harry that respect. He'd probably drag up the worst possible memories just for the fun of it…

Before he really knew what he was doing, Chris muttered, "Fine. If Harry'd rather it me be poking around in his head than Snape… I'll try and teach him what I can."

* * *

A/N: Since I know this didn't have the most drama in it, here's a little preview of what I have planned within the next few chapters: Dementors, ENCOUNTER WITH WYATT, Snape's first class with Chris, and oviously Harry and Chris' first Occlumency lesson. As you can probably tell, I'm going to have a lot of fun with the Wyatt and Chris scene.

Review!


	8. Of Dementors and Deserting Death Eaters

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. I own the strange little things you don't.**

**Chapter 8: Of Dementors and Deserting Death Eaters**

_

* * *

Before he really knew what he was doing, Chris muttered, "Fine. If Harry'd rather it me be poking around in his head than Snape… I'll try and teach him what I can."_

…

"See what I mean?" Chris muttered expressionlessly as he and Harry walked from the hospital wing. _"_Manipulative_… _old_… bat."_

Harry snorted. "Thank God."

Chris couldn't stop the grin that flicked across his face as well.

When they got back to the common room, Harry kicked off his shoes and fell into his bed while Chris wandered over to the window and perched atop the ledge, looking out over the grounds quietly. His thoughts appeared to have already taken him, probably far from the dormitories.

Harry watched him for a moment, wondering if he should ask what he was contemplating, but decided the call of sleep was just to powerful to put off any longer. Harry pulled his curtains closed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

…

That morning, while Chris was in History of Magic and Hermione was in Arithmancy, Harry and Ron commandeered the best chairs in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room (it actually wasn't hard, seeing as there were only two other people, and they left as soon as Harry and Ron walked in) and Harry wasted no time in telling Ron about the previous night.

Ron listened with an uncharacteristically serious face and summed it up dubiously, "Malfoy knifed him to his headboard, sent him a note threatening to tell Voldemort where he is, and Dumbledore wants you to take Occlumency lessons with him? _Is that man mad_? It sounds like Halliwell is a deserting Death Eater, to me- not someone who should be picking around in your head! What if when Voldemort finally gets him, he's found the prophecy and tells him? What then?"

Harry blinked. A deserting Death Eater? The thought had never occurred to him. But… "His mother and aunts are those three-- what were they called?-- Charmed Ones. They _fight_ evil. They would never let their son or nephew serve one of the most evil beings of all time."

"And your vision…" Ron began darkly, moving on from the discussion about Chris' situation. "Someone more evil than Voldemort… that's hard to believe, that is. And _one person _that's the source of _all _evil… But Dumbledore and Halliwell both knew him?"

"Yep."

Ron just shook his head, looking for all the world like he was in deeper than he'd bargained for. "_Blimey_."

Harry nodded in earnest agreement before confiding, "And last night… there was so much _blood_, and he didn't even seem to care… And then it was all gone by the time I got up. I don't think he slept at all."

Ron shook his head jadedly again and said, "Looks like we've got someone else to keep an eye on besides Malfoy, now. At least he's in Gryffindor, so we know where he is and when he comes and goes."

Harry nodded but felt a slight knot of guilt squirming in his stomach. He was actually starting to like Chris, even though he did possess quite an amount of questionable knowledge and even more questionable past acquaintances… not to mention his questionable loyalties (_how could he not trust **Dumbledore**_?)… Even despite all that, though, he technically hadn't done anything _wrong_… yet…

…

Later that morning found Chris, Harry, Ron, and Hermione queued outside of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom along with the other students continuing the subject.

When the repaired door swung open and Snape appeared, as bat-like and unpleasant as usual, the students filed in silently and Harry marveled at how smoothly Snape and Chris ignored each other. The four Gryffindors took desks in the back and watched Snape for direction on what they'd do today.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Snape began in a low voice. "I described the Dark Arts yesterday as unfixed, mutating, and indestructible, but in light of a certain new presence…" he let the words linger, making it certain that all students understood to whom he was referring. Chris, however, showed no signs of caring. "…I want to make sure we all understand what magic is considered Dark, and what may be considered acceptable, as some of us…" again, the words lingered. "…may have trouble distinguishing."

Chris still showed no signs of caring and was watching Snape with almost blatant indifference. Harry couldn't help but look between the two and wonder, yet again, what had gone on between them.

Snape continued. "Mr. Longbottom, would you consider the jelly-legs curse a Dark curse?"

Neville turned bright pink and mumbled, "N-no, sir…"

"So you're not hopeless, after all," Snape mused, sneering. Neville turned even pinker. "What would you consider the _Contortes_ _Bilfrot_ curse?"

Neville blinked and mumbled almost inaudibly, "I don't know, sir…"

"Then again, maybe you are," Snape sneered, correcting his earlier observation. "Mr. Finnigan, the _Contortes_ _Bilfrot_ curse?"

"I don't know, sir," said Seamus plainly.

Snape's ugly sneer grew even more pronounced. "Does _anyone_ know of this curse?"

A few people actually turned in their seats to see if Hermione had her hand raised and was just being ignored again, but even Hermione was looking puzzled. Harry recognized that expression. This was one of the rare occasions where Hermione couldn't even remember coming across it, ever, in anything she'd ever read.

"No, Miss Granger?" leered Snape, taking advantage of the one time he had question she didn't know to rub salt in the wound. "Shame. This must make you feel so… incompetent." He sneered more at Hermione's visible wince, but she glared right back. He then turned his attention to Hermione's left, where Chris sat, still watching him with distanced unconcern. He arched an eyebrow very much like Chris himself, and asked in (for some reason) mocking tones, "_Mr. Halliwell_?" as if the name or title was humorous or ironic.

Chris didn't move; he'd already been following Snape with his eyes the entire time, but replied expressionlessly, "Dark."

"Are you merely guessing, or do you know the actual function of the curse?" Snape retorted smoothly, making it clear which he thought the answer was.

"It causes all the blood vessels to explode simultaneously, then the heart itself," Chris returned just as tonelessly as before. His eyes never left Snape, his expression never changed from neutral, and if Harry had to hazard a guess at Snape's mental state, he'd say the professor was just as uncomfortable as most of the students by now. Maybe even unnerved.

But he didn't show it. He merely asked, rather challengingly, "The _Mortiblais_ hex?"

"Dark."

"_Eniferuk _ritual?"

"Dark."

"_Tacktable_?"

"Alright."

Snape named off more curses, hexes, rituals, and potions, and Chris answered them all without hesitation, even as he made a few queries of whether certain ones went by other names (which he gave), and they always did. Harry noticed Hermione scribbling all the names down as they went, struggling to write as fast as they spoke.

After what felt like a hundred more questions and answers, Snape finally asked one in which Chris replied inexpressively, "Depends."

Snape gave him an appraising look, clearly pleased because he only had one answer in mind, and commanded quietly, "Explain yourself."

"Well," Chris said just as tonelessly, "it depends on the person. If someone had done it to, say, your mother, they could have saved the general population a lot of grief."

Snape scowled as the class (mostly Gryffindors) burst out laughing, not knowing what the spell did but knowing an insult when they heard one.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor for cheek," Snape hissed, and the laughter faded away within seconds. Snape did not look pleased. He returned to the front and scrawled a page number on the board. "You will spend the rest of this class reading Ministry guidelines and restrictions on practicable magic. What makes a spell acceptable, and where the Ministry draws the line. When you are finished with the reading, you may begin working on the essay I want about the four most notable and significant restrictions. Sixteen inches. Due tomorrow."

The class groaned collectively but grudgingly pulled out their books and began the reading assignment. Harry hazarded a glance over to Chris and found that he still remained as distant as before, though he was reading now, and Harry couldn't help but wonder about him. How did he know so much about… _everything_? Was he a reader like Hermione, but just didn't confine himself to books concerning 'good' magic? Or did he actually have experience with everything they talked about?

Harry sighed and turned to his own work. He wouldn't find out until he had more information.

He was interrupted from his reading after only seconds, however, as there came a knock on the door and Malfoy entered, looking hassled.

"Sorry I'm late, sir," said Malfoy as he passed Snape's desk. At Snape's querying eyebrow, he explained cryptically, throwing an inconspicuous dirty look in Chris' direction, "I was a little… _tied up_."

Snape noticed the glance and his eyes narrowed, but he didn't remark on it. "Very well. Take your seat."

"Any one of us came in late, he'd take twenty points from Gryffindor," Ron muttered resentfully.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for interrupting the class' reading with your comment, Mr. Weasley."

Several students muttered angrily for a second, but silenced themselves almost immediately at Snape's look of daggers. Everyone turned back to their books.

Harry finished the reading quickly, barely skimming it, and was about to retrieve parchment from his bag when a series of movements caught his attention. In front of Harry, Malfoy's hand went to his left forearm and the pale boy grimaced slightly. Snape, from his desk, unconsciously rubbed that same arm and looked faintly annoyed. And… from Harry's right… Chris absentmindedly rubbed that arm, but he continued reading.

Harry felt his jaw drop and his heart sink like a stone. The left arm. The arm the Dark Mark was branded onto. Snape-- of course Snape had one, and Harry had had his suspicions about Draco Malfoy replacing his father as a Death Eater over the summer… this proved it, didn't it?

But Chris… Ron was right. Chris had to be a deserting Death Eater. Either that or… No. There was no 'or'. Chris had a Dark Mark, he didn't want Voldemort to find him, he had knowledge of so much Dark magic, he disliked Dumbledore… and he knew Snape and Malfoy both from outside school… There was no other conclusion. Chris had joined Voldemort's ranks and now he was running from that commitment.

Harry stared at the new student, who had begun drumming his pen on the desk as he read. The white hair. He had said it was from a 'traumatizing' life. A life in Voldemort's circle? How had his parents and aunts let that happen, if they were so good and powerful? Did they agree with Voldemort about Pureblood superiority? And what made Chris go along with it long enough to be branded, but then want out? What had changed? And was that why Dumbledore was insisting on him staying at Hogwarts? Was Dumbledore trying to protect him from Voldemort's retribution?

Harry shook himself mentally, trying to clear his head from the hurricane of thoughts and questions. In the middle of a classroom with two, possibly three Death Eaters was not a great place to muse over betrayers of Voldemort, especially when he knew two of the possible three were 'superb' in mental magic. Instead, he took out his parchment and placed it beside his book.

He attempted to get started on his essay, like half the class was already doing, but was unable. Harry constantly found his eyes wandering over to Chris, who was still drumming his pen against the desk, though quicker, now. He was still reading, or trying to, but Harry noticed how his eyes would stop in the middle of a line and just stare, obviously lost in thought. And, right before Harry's eyes, Chris was getting paler. The tapping of the pen was agitation. He was bothered. Was it the reminder of Voldemort in the form of a burning Dark Mark?

Chris raked a hand through his hair in that unconscious gesture of anxiety Harry was already beginning to recognize. Something was wrong. Chris wasn't breathing properly. He was paling to the point of white. Something was very wrong.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris raked a hand through his hair in agitation. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The waves of fear and hopelessness he'd been sensing from people in the school were getting stronger. They were slamming into him like tidal waves now, almost knocking him out of his seat in their almost palpable intensity. He could feel the source of it all moving through the school, inciting those emotions in everyone it passed along the way. And it was getting closer.

Then Chris began hearing voices… inside his head.

"_Paris, Wyatt," he heard his own voice whisper thickly, taut with raw emotion. "Look what **your war **has cost us, Wyatt. **Paris**."_

---

"_Prue, **please**," his voice cracked with pain. "Please, **don't do this**…"_

"_Chris, it's all right. If my own people think I should go, then I shall go."_

"_Prue, you're the last person I **have**. Please… don't leave me."_

_There was silence, and then a heart-wrenching scream._

_---_

"_They're your family, too, Wyatt! How can you do this?! They're your **family**…!" Chris' throat was too tight to say anymore. _

_An evil sneer, and a knife that pierced through an aunt's flesh as easily as if it were butter… "My dear little brother… so are you."_

Chris was vaguely aware of Harry watching him strangely and asking if he was okay, but the rest of the school's and his own emotions were overwhelming and only getting stronger. Then, before he knew what was happening, he felt coldness consume him and everything went black.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry, disregarding the rest of the class' quietness in his concern for the suddenly very white and shaking student next to him, asked aloud, "Chris, are you okay?"

Snape and the other pupils glanced up just in time to see Chris collapse.

There were several 'Oh my God's and Harry jumped to the floor next to him to check his pulse, not liking the blue tinge of his lips.

"Potter?" asked Snape sharply as he swooped down on Chris' other side.

"Breathing, sir. I don't know what happened. He just started getting paler and shaking, then he passed out," Harry explained hastily, unnerved by Snape's transparent, genuine worry. "Shall I get Madam Pomfrey, or maybe the headmaster?"

"Get the headmaster," said Snape as he took out his wand and muttered a spell over Chris. "And the rest of you, get out!" He added to the class at large.

Haltingly, they got their books together and left the classroom in groups, muttering and casting glances over their shoulders. Harry could have sworn he saw Malfoy smirk smugly as he walked out with Blaise Zabini.

Harry left with Ron and Hermione, the three walking quickly to get to Dumbledore, but they barely made it out of the classroom before Harry felt his heart skip a beat as pure dread washed over him

A dementor was gliding towards them, drawing its deep, hoarse, rattling breath and plunging them all into freezing air. Stumbling backwards as he felt a horrible jolt of dread, Harry raised his wand.

"_Expecto_ _Patronum!_" he shouted, as did several other members of last years' DA club. None of theirs worked in the slightest, and Harry's was only a thin wisp of silvery vapor. He could feel his breath freezing in his throat and there was a rushing in his ears as the dementor got ever closer. _What was a dementor doing here, anyway? _He mentally demanded, but pushed that thought aside. He had no time for musings. Trying, trying to call forth a happy thought, he aimed and tried again. "_Expecto Patronum!_"

His voice was dim and distant to his own ears… Another wisp of smoke, even feebler than the last. He couldn't do it… his mother's screams were echoing in his ears… he couldn't work the spell anymore… Voldemort's shrill, malicious laughter… inside his head… _Think-- something happy! …_Coldness… icy coldness, filling his lungs, drowning him. He couldn't do it… there was no happiness in him… no happiness left… just the cold…

Someone beside him touched him as they cringed… Hermione. Both her and Ron's faces suddenly burst into his mind, shining with bright clarity, and he knew to try it one last time as blackness touched upon his vision. "_EXPECTO PATRONUM!_"

The last thing he saw before his vision swam into blackness was the brilliant, enormous stag that erupted from the tip of his wand.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"_Just tell me where the city is and I'll stop, Christopher. It's as easy as that," the Source stated lightly, and, when Chris didn't answer immediately, still chocking back sobs of anguish, he stabbed the blade through their eight year old cousin's gut without even looking at her. The small girl gasped sharply, face screwed up in suppressed pain. Wyatt twisted the blade still lodged in her abdomen and she let out a tiny choking noise, tears spilling silently from her tightly closed brown eyes._

_There were screams of horror, rage, and anguish from the other family members, including the girl's parents-- Chris' aunt Paige and uncle Henry. Paige was hyperventilating, face contorted in agony with tears streaming endlessly down her cheeks, and Henry was yelling broken, bloody murder. Both were fighting wildly, hopelessly, against their bonds chaining them to the wall, but nothing budged. Nothing ever budged. Paige broke down in harder sobs, gasping for breath. And Henry wept as he yelled brokenly for his daughter to be let go, to keep this torture in the adults. Chris' other aunt and uncle concurred, none of them with dry cheeks, and Chris' other cousins merely sobbed in shock and fear. _

_Wyatt actually laughed and, without a word, conjured another knife. He drove it through the small girls' throat._

Chris' eyes snapped open but were unseeing as he bolted upright, gasping, cold sweat sliding on his face.

"_I've found you, Christopher…"_ The voice whispered inside his head sending cold chills sailing down his spine, but the voice wasn't his brother's, he realized somewhere within his whirling subconscious… it was Lord Voldemort's.

_Oh, God, Voldemort knows…_ he thought with a rush of panic. Foul words flooded his mind in a mixture of every language he knew. He needed to find Dumbledore as soon as possible and demand permission to leave before Voldemort started attacking and people started dying. He had to leave…

"Christopher," a sharp voice broke him out of his trance-like, yet panicked state. Chris glanced up with wide, unseeing eyes, and, in a snap, consciousness fully cracked back down on him. Severus Snape. He jumped in surprise, very much realizing where he was and who he was with, again.

Snape was on the floor beside him, calculating eyes scouring Chris' body for signs of… something.

"What happened?" the two demanded simultaneously.

"You don't know?" was their next unified query.

Snape gave Chris another once-over and remarked, "There was a dementor, but you fainted well over a minute before it even arrived."

"Dementor," Chris repeated blankly, not asking but clearly expecting an explanation. He didn't like being alone with this man, and he sure as hell wasn't going to _beg_ him for information.

"Dementors are dark creatures that drain happiness out of the air around them," Snape explained tonelessly, still watching Chris shrewdly as though he might start manifesting strange symptoms at any moment. "They live off of every good feeling, every happy memory, and leave their victims with only the worst experiences from their lives. I'd imagine you might faint in their presence-- Potter does and he's been through less-- but it was at _least_ a floor below us--" he added with something akin to a leer.

"That is enough, Severus," said a voice from the doorway, and who should it belong to but one Albus Dumbledore, leading a very pale Harry to sit down in a nearby desk. "Christopher, what happened?"

"Irrelevant," Chris returned dismissively, standing and inconspicuously leaning against a desk for support. "Voldemort knows I'm here. I need to leave, like, _now_."

"Are you certain he knows?" asked Dumbledore quite calmly, as though they were talking about the weather, as he broke off a piece of chocolate for Harry and offered the other half to Chris.

"Quite," Chris replied coldly, turning down the chocolate and looking at Dumbledore as though he were a smidge crazy. "Now will you remove the barriers so I can leave?"

"No," responded Dumbledore evenly and added, "The chocolate will help the lingering effects of the dementor, which is, I suppose, why you passed out."

"Thanks anyway," Chris said blandly in regards to the chocolate, then continued severely, "You do realize now that Riddle knows where I am, he won't stop attacking the school until he has me, and he won't care how many innocent bystanders are killed. There's _no way _I'm going to let that happen, so just let me go."

"No," Dumbledore repeated simply.

"_What the hell is wrong with you?_" Chris hissed vehemently._ "_You're going to keep me here-- _against my will_, no less-- for some damn law while Voldemort picks off your **rightful** students just because they're in the wrong place at the wrong time? _What the hell are you thinking_? Nobody wants me here, and it's dangerous for me to even _be_ here! Just let me leave, already!"

"Christopher, Voldemort will not attack my school just because I am housing one more enemy. If that were the case, he would have started trying to take over years ago," Dumbledore stated patiently.

Chris looked at Dumbledore for a moment, feeling such a hurricane of fury and exasperation he couldn't even speak. Finally, he let it out in a rush of breath and snapped at Snape, who was watching the exchange silently from the side, "Snape, please explain to this **_insufferable_** man exactly how badly Voldemort wants me, since he obviously isn't listening to me."

Snape arched an eyebrow at the commanding voice, but explained nevertheless, "Headmaster, imagine how angry the Dark Lord would be towards an anarchist-teenager that calls him 'The Man Who Let The Boy Live' to his face-- a teenager that continuously mocks him openly in public and does not react at all to punishment. I believe, considering the Source also wants this boy back in his possession, Voldemort _would_, in fact, risk attacking this school in order to retrieve him."

To both Snape and Chris' surprise, though, Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling. "The Man Who Let The Boy Live?"

Chris stared, astounded. "That's all you got from his little speech? My _nickname_ for Voldemort? …Good Lord, this school is _screwed_," he concluded, shaking his head in horrid amazement.

"Be that as it may, my answer is still no," said Dumbledore calmly. "If you are wanted by Voldemort and the Source so badly, I cannot let you go where I have no idea if you'll be safe."

"I'm not safe _here_!"

"You have my protection, Christopher. You are safe. Trust me," Dumbledore said and, for the first time, he sounded serious.

Chris gaped at him as words, yet again, escaped him. _You have my protection… **Safe**… _

Then the words came rushing back. "Are-- you-- _insane_?" he demanded, frankly horrified. "Why the hell would you say something like _that_? That's the singularly stupidest thing you've said _yet_! Do you honestly think you'd stand a _chance_ against the Source? Good grief, the only thing that can stand between me and the Source--and _survive_-- is my sarcasm! Damn, man, get a clue!"

Both Snape's and Harry's jaws dropped, but Dumbledore replied without missing a beat, "Believe it or not, I am not the fragile old man you believe me to be. I do have the ability to protect you from Voldemort, and probably the Source as well. You have my word, Christopher; I will not let them hurt you again."

For a moment, Chris stared at Dumbledore as his mind drew a complete blank, allowing Dumbledore's words to echo freely in the emptiness. _Protect you… I will not let them hurt you again… hurt you again… **Protect** you…_

He felt a shudder run through his body, though he didn't know exactly why. Not knowing what else to say, not knowing how to react, he merely let his emotions evaporate and asked quietly, "So, no matter what I say, you're not going to let me go?"

"I'm afraid not," responded Dumbledore gently, watching Chris' sudden change from passionate to passive, almost _saddened_, with concern.

There was a slight, almost unnoticeable pause, then he said, "I see. Is that all or can I go to my next class?"

Dumbledore continued to study Chris' expression, wondering how much more the boy could handle at the moment. At length, he made the decision to kick start Chris' and Harry's friendship in the only way he had control over. He got the feeling Chris might need it soon. "If you feel up to it, I would like you to begin Harry's Occlumency lessons tonight. Our tea appointment can wait until afterwards."

"Christopher is teaching Potter Occlumency?" asked Snape, his lips twisting into a not-so-innocent smirk.

Dumbledore turned his attention towards Snape with a good humored grimace. "I figured I might spare the both of you any more extra curricular lessons, seeing as they turned out oh-so splendidly last year."

Snape's smirk shifted into an even more unpleasant one. "If you would be so kind, Headmaster, I would like to know the outcome of this first lesson," he said quietly with that discomforting gleam in his eye accompanying the smirk.

Neither he nor Chris elaborated on whatever history they'd had in the area of Occlumency and Legilimency.

…

"The Man Who Let The Boy Live?" repeated Harry with a grin as he and Chris walked out of the DADA room, heading to their next class-- transfiguration.

Chris grinned, too. "Yep. Sorry about that, though. I think I've made him hate you even more by teasing him-- constantly-- about you."

Harry stared at him. "So you _honestly_ aren't afraid of Voldemort?"

Chris glanced over at Harry. "Of course I'm afraid of him… but I couldn't live with myself if _he_ knew that, now, could I?" The last part was said with a slightly mischievous twinkle in his stormy green eyes.

Harry suppressed another grin as he nodded mock-seriously. "You know, you do have a point."

"Funny, I thought so, too."

"So, you wanna tell me what your deal with Snape is, now?" Harry changed subjects casually.

"Nope," Chris returned just as casually, throwing Harry an amused glance.

"How about what you did to Malfoy? He gave you that look when he said he'd been _tied up_."

Chris chuckled. "I hog-tied him on top of his bed. Well, I didn't actually go down there and do it myself; that would have been way too time-consuming and physical," he amended absentmindedly, giving a door a strange look as it grinned as they passed.

Harry, catching the look, commented, "Yeah, they do that. The doors here are pretty strange. So are the walls and staircases… and pretty much everything else."

"Huh," Chris said thoughtfully.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Minerva McGonagall kept an eye on the new student throughout the class period. She had explained to him that he would do the writing assignments with the rest of the class as soon as the other the students began with their practical spell casting. He couldn't participate in this unless he wanted to write a little poem to accomplish the same thing-- they were turning quills into birds.

He had smiled at that suggestion and asked if he could just get started on the essay she assigned as homework. She consented.

Now the professor watched him scribbling on parchment with the unfamiliar writing utensil. She had seen many Muggleborns struggle with the same transition from pens and pencils to quills and ink wells. He seemed to be handling it well, but looked up when he felt her staring. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask for a particular reason, and Minerva just shook her head. She turned back to her thoughts.

She hadn't been surprised when he had walked in the room with Harry Potter. …Potter had a knack for attracting trouble…

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry didn't have a chance to talk to Hermione without Chris present until lunch, when Chris had been held back by Slughorn to talk about his potion-making experiences in the Halliwell family. Harry lost no time in informing her (and Ron, again) of last night's drama, along with the new addition of today's.

"So this proves it," Ron breathed, looking both triumphant and aghast once Harry had finished. "Malfoy is a Death Eater, and so was Halliwell! Did you tell Dumbledore?"

"I think Dumbledore already knows," said Harry, watching the still silent Hermione for a reaction as he spoke. She appeared to be deep in thought. "He said he wouldn't let Voldemort hurt him again, so he must know _something_ about it."

Finally, Hermione voiced, though her eyes were still glazed over in contemplation, "Are you sure he couldn't just be fighting Voldemort with his mother and aunts or something of the sort? It would make sense that he wouldn't want Voldemort to know where he was if they weren't here to back him up. It would also make sense that Voldemort had hurt him, maybe in a battle. And 'mocks him openly in public'? Running Death Eaters try to hide, they don't flaunt their ideas like that."

"They might if they had three powerful, ass-kicking relatives," Ron pointed out through a mouthful of pie.

Hermione's eyes narrowed in concentration. "It doesn't add up. And who summoned that dementor? How did it get past the wards? Did Professor Dumbledore say?"

Harry shook his head, also thinking hard. "But… they rubbed the Dark Mark right before it happened. Maybe… Maybe that was Voldemort warning them what he was about to do, to prepare the ones who knew the plan or something. He's the only one powerful enough to get anything past the wards, anyway."

"Maybe," Hermione agreed, still looking as if wheels were turning behind her eyes. "And the headmaster wants Chris to teach you Occlumency?"

Harry nodded and watched as the furrow in Hermione's quizzical brow deepened. Judging from this, Harry knew whatever mystery she was thinking about, she would solve. Her steadfast analytical mind was in overdrive.

…

Despite Ron's quiet but firm suspicion, Hermione's mostly intellectual curiosity, and Harry's torn indecisiveness, they sat in the common room with Chris that evening and did their homework together as though nothing had changed. Chris didn't appear to notice the glances from all three he received, now.

It was some time after they were all finished that Harry, stretched out comfortably on an armchair, asked, "So, are you going to start that Occlumency lesson tonight? You won't be able to see Dumbledore afterwards if we wait much longer."

Chris swore mildly from his seat on the window ledge. "I'd hoped you'd forgotten about that," he muttered. He glanced around the common room to find it empty besides Harry, Ron, Hermione, and himself. He eyes went back to Harry. "Do you want to go somewhere private or do you want to stay here with them?"

Harry looked at his friends and they looked back.

"We'll leave if it makes you uncomfortable," Hermione offered, unhurt. Ron nodded in agreement, but Harry could tell they were both reluctant to leave him alone with this suspected previous Death Eater, no matter how old he was.

Harry took a moment to think. He knew the lesson was going to get personal. Having someone else inside his mind automatically guaranteed that, but they were his best friends, and they had already been the source of his strength today when he fought off the dementor. Maybe having them around would actually help. "That's okay," he said decisively. "Stay. Who knows, maybe I might actually do better."

Hermione beamed, and she and Ron moved off to the side chairs, leaving room in front of the fire for the 'teacher' and student. Chris gave Harry a look that clearly asked if he was sure, and Harry nodded firmly.

"Suit yourself," said Chris tonelessly as he alighted from his perch atop the windowsill and went to sit on the floor. Frowning, Harry got out of his own comfortable spot and sat down in front of him.

"Do you have something against chairs?" Harry demanded, half joking, and half resentful for being made to move.

"Nope, just something against you," Chris replied lightly and, at Harry's surprised expression, he chuckled. "Kidding, Harry. I was kidding. So, Occlumency… I was thinking about how Snape told you to clear your mind…" When Harry nodded in affirmation, Chris continued thoughtfully, "...and I've decided that's a load of crap."

* * *

**A/N: Hi.**


	9. Of Windows and Rain

**Disclaimer: I don't owned Charmed or its characters, do-da do-da, I don't owned Harry Potter either, oh da do-da day...**

This Chapter is Dedicated to Bobby: I'm very sorry I hung up on you to write this. I hope, at the very least, you enjoy reading it.

Reviewers: I know I said I would try to update again later that week (during Spring Break) and I'm sorry. Things didn't go according to plan.

**

* * *

Chapter 9: Of Windows and Rain**

"_So, Occlumency… I was thinking about how Snape told you to clear your mind…" When Harry nodded in affirmation, Chris continued thoughtfully, "and I've decided that's a load of crap."_

Harry blinked. "Oh?"

"Yes," Chris confirmed simply. "You have to build walls."

"…Walls?"

"Yes."

"…This is going to take a while, isn't it?"

"Only if you're a hopeless idiot."

"… …This is going to take a while, isn't it?"

Chris snorted. "Let's just hope not." When Harry looked less than convinced, Chris sighed, eyes distanced in thought. "Alright, let me see if I can explain this… So, you know when someone's bothering you and you start to get annoyed? You know that emotion, how it kind of raises up so it feels like it's somewhere just below your skin?"

Harry nodded, imagining what he was talking about and trying to see where he was going with it.

"Well, grab that emotion where it is and sort of… steel it. Don't think about anything but that emotion and make it… _harder_… like a wall."

Harry frowned, considering it. "I… I think I get what you're saying," he said after another moment.

Chris nodded and asked, "You want to try it, now?"

Harry hesitated. He could feel Ron and Hermione behind him, holding their breath. Slowly, he braced himself, tried to grab that feeling Chris was talking about, and nodded.

"Alright, on the count of three," said Chris, and no one missed the note of reluctance in his tone. He locked eyes with Harry and muttered, "One… two… three."

Chris didn't say anything, like Snape had, but Harry instantly felt something push against his 'emotion', and then it was through. Images flashed before his eyes as though he was watching a film, so vivid it blinded him from seeing the common room at all.

_He was in second grade and a group of girls was making fun of his baggy, elephant skin clothes. His uncle Vernon was yelling at him not to ask questions. Hundreds of dementors swarmed across the lake-- Hermione was in the hospital wing, petrified-- Ron fell off a giant horse on a huge chessboard-- Cho was getting closer to him, so close he could see the tears gathered on her eyelashes--_

Suddenly, it stopped, and Harry found himself staring at the ceiling from on his back. Hermione was hovering above him, asking if he was alright while Ron demanded to know what Chris thought he was doing.

"It's fine," Harry said sharply as he struggled to sit up. His friends instantly backed off but still waited for an explanation. "It happens. I fall. At least we're sitting on the floor and not standing, like Snape had me do."

"He's mean like that," commented Chris expressionlessly, already thinking about how to better explain his method instead of how Harry's friends had instantly jumped to the conclusion that he'd done something malevolent. He took another moment, then said, "For a first attempt, that was… _alright_… I guess. You just let the wall shatter, but you can't do that. It can be pushed back, that's fine, but don't just let it go. Keep concentrating on it. You built it and just waited to see what I would do to it; don't. Don't think about me, keep thinking about you and that wall. It won't matter what I do if you can control… you."

Harry nodded, trying to digest what he was being told. "You know," he remarked thoughtfully, "I may be really bad at this, but you are already a much better teacher than Snape. He just made me try it again, and again, and again without explaining anything."

Chris smiled slightly. "Like I said: He's just mean like that. Now, you ready to try again?" When Harry nodded, swallowing hard, Chris added, "Remember… think about you… not me. Okay… One… two… three…"

Harry braced himself and this time ignored Chris. He concentrated on picturing a massive brick wall, and held his breath, trying to keep it strong though he could feel an outward force pushing it… _hard_. Then, before he knew what had happened, the wall shattered and memories were flashing before his eyes.

_Snape was making fun of him for not knowing what an ingredient in a potion was specifically used for; he was running down the corridor leading to the Department of Mysteries and the door swung open before him; it was Christmas his first year at Hogwarts and he was surprised when he found a stack of Christmas presents at the foot of his bed; Sirius and Lupin struggled together to close the curtains over Mrs. Black's portrait; he was tied to the headstone in the graveyard, staring into the lifeless eyes of Cedric Diggory--_

"You let me get in too far," Chris said, and Harry realized suddenly that the memories had stopped, and that he was on his back again. He struggled to sit up, his head spinning crazily, and Chris continued, "Why didn't you try to push me out? I felt no resistance whatsoever."

Finally getting upright, Harry shook his head, trying to clear it. The headache made him feel like his brains were being bashed repeatedly against the walls of his skull. "I… dunno. How do I throw you out?"

Chris blinked, clearly not having expected that question. "…How… do you throw…?" he repeated, looking slightly confused. "You mean you can't… sense where I am?"

"Er… well, yeah, but… how do I get you out?"

Chris blinked, and then again, but now it was to a more thoughtful effect. "Um… When you sense where I am, you've got to put a force in front of me-- like a wall, but more flexible… and just push that force at me with as much strength as you've got. …Is that confusing?"

"Extremely," replied Harry with a sigh, "but let's give it a try."

"Alright… One… two… three."

Harry barely had time to construct the wall before he felt Chris push into his consciousness. Within no time at all, the wall was shattered and memories flocked before his inner eye, but this time they were more transparent and he took advantage of that to summon a 'force' to throw the presence that was Chris out.

_Ginny was lying on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets, barely breathing-- he was yelling at the Mermen that Hermione was his friend, too, that he couldn't leave her-- he and Ron were laughing over butterbeers and playing Wizard's Chess while Crookshanks flicked his claws at the little chess pieces-- Pierre was holding his arms behind his back while Dudley punched him-- he was smashing Dumbledore's office and yelling in rage--_

Instinctively, Harry grabbed that emotion and mentally forced it into a wall in front of Chris, halting the sequence of images, but allowing that one to play out. He embraced his new wall by allowing himself to feel everything, gathering all of it into his control, and mentally drew it back, then hurtled it at Chris.

He physically gasped as unfamiliar memories slammed into his temple harder than an oncoming train.

_A brunette, about thirteen years old, threw himself across the front seat of a car to grab an older blond boy, and the two went straight through the side of the car without leaving a mark. As they rolled to a halt on the pavement, the car went flying right off (what looked like) the Golden Gate Bridge. --  
There was a flash of blackness and a woman's querying face flickered before his eyes… blackness… the same woman, now looking surprised, shocked… blackness… Harry felt fear-- no, _terror_-- like he had never felt before; Chris' voice whispered, voice portraying that same ungodly terror, "__**Run**__."… Silence, blackness… Pain tore through Harry's heart, ripping it open and leaving it bleeding. It was too much. The shock, the grief, the anguish… He saw Chris, standing in the ruins of what had once been a house, unmoving, unblinking, barely breathing… blood on him and around him… blood, seeping underneath the body of the woman that lay at his feet… Then, nothingness._

Harry snapped to his senses in time to feel his whole body searing with pain. He blinked blearily and tried to sit up but immediately let himself fall back, his limbs and head ardently protesting the movement.

"Yeah… you might not want to move for a minute," Chris' voice drifted to him from across a slight distance. "I really shouldn't have thrown you out, but you kinda caught me off guard. But that was _damn_ good on your part, especially for a first try. _Really_ damn good."

"Thanks," said Harry weakly, massaging his temples from his prostrate position on the ground. He rolled over and blinked in the light until it focused better. He could vaguely make out Chris' form somewhere to the side of him, still sitting and waiting. "Who was that… that woman? Did she die? What happened?"

Silence dropped as swiftly as a guillotine. Ron and Hermione seemed to be withholding their own questions about Harry's questions so that they would not miss the answer.

The answer was simple. "I'd rather not talk about it."

Harry blinked. He hadn't been expecting such a blunt, this-conversation-is-over answer. He had felt such powerful, overwhelming emotion as though it had been his own; such terror and apprehension he was still shaking and unable to breathe steadily; such pain, his heart felt like it was literally tearing in half… And Chris wasn't going to explain the emotions Harry now had to deal with, _at all_.

"Chris…"

"Harry."

Harry glared and Chris arched an eyebrow as if to ask, _What are you going to do about it?_

Deciding to back off of that approach, Harry considered the details of the choppy memory. A woman who didn't know what was going on, and Chris telling her to run, only to end with her lying unconscious, bleeding at his feet as he himself went into shock…

"…That woman kind of looked like you…" Harry commented at last.

For a moment, Chris gave Harry such an unreadable look, Harry wondered if he had crossed the line this time. He started to open his mouth to apologize when Chris finally replied tonelessly,

"…I get that a lot." When Harry cautiously gave Chris a prodding look, Chris looked away and murmured, "That was my mother."

There was a pause, then Hermione whispered what they were all thinking, "_Was_?"

After a second of hesitation, Chris gave a single nod.

Harry swallowed hard, realizing what this was implying. "So… That last memory… that was her death?"

Chris nodded, but didn't volunteer any details. Harry, deciding that since Chris wasn't quite at ex-Death-Eater-angry, he might survive prying a little further.

"So… what happened? I mean… you told her to run, so you must have seen… whatever happened…"

Chris didn't look at any of them, and he didn't answer for quite a while. The trio watched him with soft gazes, not wanting to alienate him with harsh stares if he was going to talk to them about his mother's untimely death. Even if they weren't sure about trusting him yet, they weren't going to harass him over something like that.

Finally, the youngest Halliwell said quietly, "Her sisters… my aunts… weren't there to help her. She didn't expect it to happen at all and she wasn't remotely prepared… She never even stood a chance…"

"But… she had to have put up the best fight she had," said Harry. He didn't know why, but the thought of how his own father had stood his ground and fought Voldemort had always been some sort of comfort to him. Maybe Chris felt the same…? "She _had_ to have given it her best… your house was completely destroyed."

Chris' eyes flicked as though he was stopping himself from rolling them. "That's not saying a lot," he muttered. "I can recall _at least _eight times the Manor was destroyed in less-than-life-threatening battles… Not to mention all the times someone in the family just threw a temper tantrum…"

"People in your family could- _did_- destroy a _manor_ when they got mad?" Ron repeated, astounded. "Good _God_, you must either have a lot of bloody power or just _really_ horrible tempers."

Chris smirked slightly, still not really looking at them. "I think everyone had a little bit of both, actually."

"That's not a good combination," Hermione voiced softly, watching Chris so closely Harry wondered if she was seeing something he and Ron couldn't.

Chris laughed, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Don't I know it. My mother was the worst with _both_, _and_ she had the power to blow things up."

"She had the power to blow things up?" Harry asked, frowning. "What do you mean? If she knew the spell, wouldn't she tell her sisters so they could use it, too?"

Chris looked at Harry for a moment as though to ask what _he_ meant, but then comprehension seemed to dawn on him. "Oh… you mean like with a wand or something. Yeah, my family's Wicca, not… _Wizarding_."

When Harry and Ron both opened their mouths, Hermione had already anticipated their confusion and explained, "Wicca is another type of magic. They don't use wands with one or two word spells like we do; they have natural powers like telekinesis and cloning and premonition that don't require anything at all. And their spells, for when they need something they don't have a power over, are like chanted poems that can be made up on the spot. They also aren't supposed to use their magic for personal gain-- it's only meant to be used to help others. Right?"

She looked to Chris, who arched an eyebrow, impressed, and confirmed, "You're good."

She blushed at the compliment but looked pleased, all the same. "I noticed you weren't using a spell to get inside Harry's mind, so I'm guessing you have a psychic power? Maybe telepathy?"

Chris shook his head. "Just a combination of empathy and post-cognition."

"_What_?" demanded Harry and Ron, both looking hopelessly lost while Hermione merely nodded.

Chris' lips twitched, almost smiling at their blatant bewilderment. "Empathy is the ability to feel what the people around me feel, like I know _exactly_ how confused you guys are, and post-cognition is the ability to see the past."

"Oh?" said Ron, still clearly lost. "And are those your only-- er-- powers?"

Chris shook his head, but didn't elaborate until they all gave him pointedly questioning looks. He sighed. "Telekinesis is probably the only other one you'll ever see me use… The ability to move things with my mind," he added at Harry's dumbfounded expression. "And I can walk through solid objects… Besides those, my other powers don't serve any purpose outside of combat, so hopefully you won't ever have to see them."

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione began asking for him just to name them, and to show them anyway, _and_ demonstrate how his spells worked, Chris just rolled his eyes, stood up, and left.

"Where'd he go, d'you reckon?" Ron asked, looking somewhat affronted at being walked out on like that.

"Dumbledore wanted to have tea with him after my lesson," Harry replied absentmindedly, thinking on all that they'd learned.

_Empathy_, he thought. Maybe Chris had used that to feel what Snape and Malfoy had when they felt their own Dark Marks burn. Maybe he didn't really have one at all… And his mother… he had seen her die no more than just three years ago… He couldn't have been older than thirteen in that memory.

Hermione, looking as deep in thought as he was, stood and walked out the portrait hole, mumbling about going to the library to look up something.

Over an hour later, neither Chris nor Hermione had returned, and Harry and Ron dragged theselves up to bed.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris strode through the labyrinth-like corridors of the castle thoughtfully. He honestly hadn't expected Harry to push back so forcefully… and he scolded himself again for having let his guard down in the first place.

Yes, Harry had potential, and Chris would try to help him reach his fullest, but… Chris had to be able to judge how much strength he could use against Harry perfectly every time; if he used too much, he could severely injure Harry, and if he used too little, Harry would be able to push into his memories again, and Chris couldn't risk letting that happen. There was no telling what he would see… _But he didn't want to hurt Harry by overdoing it… _

Rolling his eyes at his pointless mental war, Chris turned his focus to something more important. Voldemort. Voldemort now knew his location, and there was no telling how long the dark wizard would wait before acting… There was no telling what he would do… So why had Chris just been worrying over future lessons with Harry when he should be thinking of ways to get as far away from Hogwarts as he could before Voldemort started killing off random students? There would _be_ no more lessons if he could just get away…

Chris sighed and threatened the stone gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's staircase so violently and vulgarly, not only can the author not type it, the gargoyle actually jumped aside and let him through. When the staircase stopped in front of the door to Dumbledore's office, Chris considered knocking but decided against it. He wanted to see if he could catch the old wizard by surprise, just for the heck of it, and because he wasn't exactly in a pleasant mood.

Sliding smoothly into the demon-hunter mindset, Chris used his power of intangibility to walk silently through the door, then he walked over to Dumbledore's desk, angling his feet as he moved so that he was completely inaudible, adjusting his path so that he stayed in the wizard's blind spot. The old wizard was sitting behind his desk, completely immersed in an old, leather-bound volume. He didn't appear to have noticed Chris' soundless entrance at all.

Chris sat in the chair across from the desk and waited for Dumbledore to realize he wasn't alone.

It wasn't until a few moments later, when Fawkes fluttered from his perch and settled on Chris' knee, that Dumbledore looked up, and he was barely able to hide his surprise. He masked it with an amused smile and question.

"Christopher, how long have you been here?"

Chris smirked, just trying to get under the man's skin, and returned, "You mean you don't know?"

The smile didn't falter. "Your mother and aunts taught you the art of stealth well, my boy, and my senses are not what they once were."

"Which translates to you have no idea."

Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Alright, I'll admit it, though it matters for nothing, now. On another subject, how was your day? Were the classes on the right level for you?"

"Considering I don't use a wand or the spells or concepts behind them, and I discovered the meaning of the word 'dementor' the hard way?" Chris asked bluntly, giving Dumbledore a strange look. "The day went splendidly."

Dumbledore chuckled at the deadpan sarcasm then let the amusement die out in his expression. "The dementor… Do you have any theories of how it got here?"

Chris arched an eyebrow. He had thought Dumbledore would be explaining theories to him; not the other way around. However, Chris had thought of a plausible explanation during Transfiguration, and the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. He decided to share, though he kept his eyes cold. He wanted to make sure Dumbledore knew he still wasn't happy with him, even if he was going to volunteer information. "Voldemort used the Dark Mark to help one of the Death Eaters here conjure it."

Dumbledore blinked, taken aback, then apparently considered the implications of that idea for a while. Chris watched him impassively. At length, Dumbledore remarked, "That would imply that Voldemort can transfer power through the Mark… that he could give it to any one of his servants at any moment. He would have to trust them to use the power he gave them as he ordered… I do not believe he is capable of such trust. Rulers always fear their subjects gaining too much power and attempting to overthrow them. Voldemort would be too suspicious."

Chris' impassive expression didn't change as he responded. "Voldemort transfers power of sorts every time he calls a Death Eater meeting. How else does he make the Mark burn? He would find it easy to manipulate that power to let the Death Eater in question _borrow_ it long enough to conjure a dementor. And it isn't trust he'd be showing, letting a subject borrow power. He knows how much they fear him. They wouldn't try anything but what he'd ordered, because they know what the consequences would be when he would -_inevitably_- find out."

Dumbledore's eyes distanced in thought. "This is true…" he murmured. "And would even further explain my own theory that someone had _transfigured_ something into a dementor. That, too, would require more power than most students here possess… But such a concept of transferring power through the Dark Mark is… quite disturbing."

Chris gave him a wry look. "Because _nothing_ Voldemort does is _ever_ disturbing."

Again, Dumbledore chuckled at the sarcasm and effortlessly conjured two cups of steaming tea.

Chris could never pinpoint the exact moment the conversation shifted onto other lighter subjects, but at several points, he found himself wondering how they had started talking about books, or interesting trinkets (both magical and Muggle), or drinks, or… just random things that somehow led into other random things. Chris tried to keep his answers short and sarcastic (when the opening allowed for sarcasm), but Dumbledore definitely didn't seem to mind carrying the brunt of the strangely meaningless conversation. He didn't seem to care that Chris' cold gaze didn't once soften.

The result was that, by the time Chris returned to the dormitories, he felt strangely lost and… _used_. What the heck was Dumbledore doing? Why had they just… talked? Why hadn't they argued about something important and… moral? Why hadn't Dumbledore pried like he always did? Why hadn't he tried to get anything out of him? He hadn't even asked how the Occlumency lesson went…

_What is that old wizard planning? _Chris continued to wonder as he wandered over to the windowsill, picking up an interesting book as he went._ Dumbledore has to have something up his sleeve… There's no reason he would just want to talk and drink tea with __**me**__-- one of the most sarcastic and cold teenagers to ever live… He _has_ to be up to something… _

However, once his eyes started moving down the lines of writing and diagrams, he found himself caring less about brooding over whatever Dumbledore was up to, now, and more about how exactly the 300 Spartans had fended off over 10,000 Persians at Thermopylae. He had only researched the tip of the iceberg concerning Spartan combat techniques. …Those Greeks were _good_… His own adaptation of their phalanx, a unit of soldiers that moved and fought as one, had proved useful in the Resistance…

And besides, Chris had always been eager to learn…

And he had to suppress a shudder when he remembered where that had gotten him during his last binge-learning phase… And he had to suppress a shudder again as he recalled the screams of fear and agony that had been the result…

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Severus Snape took long, quick strides through the quiet mist of the overgrown graveyard. Riddle Manor loomed into view upon the hillside in the distance, reminding him cruelly of what he had to do once he got there. He suppressed a shudder and drew his cloak tighter about him, as though he could fool himself into believing the chill he felt was from the graveyard alone.

As much as he hated Lord Christopher Halliwell-- oh yes, he _hated_ the unreadable, sarcastic, cocky little brat-- he had grown to admire the teen's calm self-assurance in the face of certain defeat. And the little Wiccan hadn't _really_ lost, yet, Snape mused. He had been captured and tortured for a few weeks, sure, but when the time came, he had made a downright _flawless_ escape.

There was no denying it. The boy was Lord Wyatt's brother, through and through. It only made Snape wonder even more how their war would turn out. He couldn't see that Wyatt was ever going to wholly defeat that brat, but gods, he shuddered thinking about how the eldest would _try_.

…Much too soon for Snape's liking, he found himself at the door to the fine house/ headquarters and was granted permission to enter by the sentry. His feet followed the path to the Dark Lord's sitting room on their own, giving his mind time to construct itself for the occasion. He put all thoughts concerning his lack of enthusiasm for this visit in a very tightly closed off space and knocked shortly on the thick, warded door.

"Enter," a cold, high-pitched voice hissed, and Snape obeyed.

He swept into a kneel at his master's feet with grace and did not look up or speak-- a well practiced ritual.

"Severusss…" the Dark Lord hissed softly, lingering over the 'S'-es. Severus didn't flinch at the ill-boding feeling that voice naturally invoked. He hadn't flinched for years. "Rise, and tell me how my dementor was… _received_." The Dark Lord put a delicate stress here, as though asking how an expensive party favor was received by easily impressed guests. He was expecting good news.

"It was as we predicted, my lord," Snape replied in a carefully pleased voice as he rose and followed the Dark Lord to the window overlooking the dark cemetery. This was his master's favorite spot to stray.

Snape stayed a respected few steps back and smoothly presented the information he dreaded giving; "Lord Christopher fainted while the creature was still several floors below us."

The Dark Lord turned from the window just long enough to give Severus a very interested look. Snape professionally repressed the chill that raced up his spine at that eerie gleam in his master's scarlet snake-eyes… This was going to turn out as he feared… Christopher might not make it out of this one… mentally. The Dark Lord was going to find a way to use a dementor to traumatize the boy permanently; Snape just knew it. And how could Snape continue to grudgingly respect a comatose vegetable?

"Indeed? Well, then, we would be very ill-advised not to use that information, wouldn't we…?" Voldemort hissed with a frightening sadistic gleam in his eye.

"You would," a new voice commented from behind the two, and Snape whirled around to find himself face-to-face with the subject of their conversation's big brother. The professor practically fell into a kneeling position, vividly remembering his last experience when he had not immediately done so. It had been worse the Voldemort's punishments…

"But you shall not use the plan you are envisioning," the Source of all Evil continued, speaking in an aloof voice to Voldemort and ignoring Snape. "It would take too long. I shall merely take down the barriers surrounding this… _school_… and take Christopher the old-fashioned way."

"Oh? And that way is…?" Voldemort asked after a courteous bow upon Lord Wyatt's entrance. The Source was in a better mood, having found his brother's location, and would not vanquish the Dark Lord for this less-than-ceremonial show of subservience.

"Kicking and screaming, of course."

A smirk flicked across Voldemort's lips. However, it was Snape, who had moved slightly on the floor, that Wyatt suddenly turned to face next. "You have something you wish to say, Death Eater?" he asked in a rather colder voice, obviously sensing Snape's thoughts and finding them… unsatisfactory.

Seeing no way out of it now that the Source asked him directly, Snape kept his eyes to the floor and answered hesitatingly, "My lord… the castle's barriers have been in existence for over a thousand years… and have not failed to keep out enemies, yet. And, for a good measure… Dumbledore added a significant number of his own…. It shall not be easy, taking them down… and even so, there are many skilled witches and wizards that would give their lives in battle to protect the students."

Instead of vanquishing him on the spot, like Snape had honestly expected for contradicting and doubting him, Lord Wyatt actually peered at him, apparently considering something.

After a few more agonizing seconds in which Voldemort also seemed to hold his breath, Lord Wyatt finally spoke, an unfamiliar look in his eyes. If Snape had been brave (or suicidal) enough to look up, he might have even classified the look as… _mischievous_.

"It appears," the Source stated calmly, looking back to Voldemort, "that I have been misguided in the past, to believe myself above average dark lords," here, there was a definite glint in Wyatt's eyes. "Why don't you show me what your subject speaks of when _you_ attack the castle tomorrow night? I'm sure I could learn a lot from seeing someone more… _respected…_ do it."

Voldemort's snake-eyes widened fractionally, and the cold glint became even more prominent in Wyatt's eyes as they took in the desired reaction. The blond smirked frighteningly.

"I'll be watching, Riddle." His voice echoed in the still, otherwise silent room as he vanished in a whoosh of magma-hot flames.

Silence followed this statement, and Snape could feel Voldemort's temper rising even from his place feet away on the floor. The professor would have rushed out to give the Dark Lord privacy, as he expected he would need to plan an attack on Hogwarts, but he knew better than to leave before being dismissed.

After many more stiff, tense minutes, Voldemort finally whipped back around to face the window. "Teach young Draco how to borrow power through the Mark," he hissed venomously. "And instruct him in the spell to summon dementors. As soon as the barriers are down, he is to summon them across the school. You are to round up the dementors and let the other teachers try and deal with us; your position as a spy does not have to be compromised yet. Stay out of the way."

"Yes, Master," Snape agreed, still kneeling, but looking up and watching Voldemort pace in front of the window. The Dark Lord looked angrier than he had after the Ministry incident… and that had not been a pleasant time for any Death Eater. Lord Wyatt knew how to rattle cages, that was certain. Voldemort hadn't been planning on attacking Hogwarts until he had more support, and more research. There was no way he would even get past the Forbidden Forest unless he knew exactly which wards protected the school, and exactly how to dispel each of them. Clearly, he wasn't as prepared as he'd hoped. This was Voldemort's punishment for harboring skeptical Death Eaters, Snape knew, which just made him wonder even more why Voldemort wasn't _crucio_-ing him into next millennia for being the sole cause. Snape had been tortured one second away from insanity for less.

"Expect this to happen around midnight. Be prepared," Voldemort spat, then dismissed him with the wave of a hand. As Snape bowed his wave out of the room, his last glimpse of the dark wizard was of him glowering out of the window, no longer pacing. It was raining, now.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away, Harry Potter lay sleeping in the Gryffindor dormitories. His mental defenses were weak from being assaulted… and, in this state, Harry Potter began to dream…

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away (from Snape), but only a few meters away from Harry Potter, Lord Christopher Halliwell was perched in the open window of the dormitory, perfectly balanced and comfortable as he read from a new book, _Hogwarts: A History_, after having finished his book on Sparta.

Every once in a while, Chris could be seen looking up from his book and out the window, thoughts unimaginable to anyone else whirling inside his mind, reflected in his stormy eyes, mirrored in the worsening weather.

The only thing that could be heard within the sleepy silence of the dorm room was the background noise of the pounding rain outside…

And then the sound of something thought-to-be impossible dissolved the silence altogether.

It was the sound of orbing.

Still gazing at the gathering storm outside, Chris greeted softly, "Hey, Lily."

**

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A/N: Please review.**


	10. Of Whitelighters and Strategy

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own Charmed or Harry Potter. I'm only playing in the backyard of J.K. Rowling and Aaron Spelling; I'm not trying to sell the real-estate there.**

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* * *

Chapter 10: Of Whitelighters and Strategy**

_Still gazing at the gathering storm outside, Chris greeted softly, "Hey, Lily."_

The whitelighter didn't answer, but walked over to the bed Harry slept in as though she were in a trance. Her bright green eyes were transfixed on the scarlet curtains that surrounded his four-poster bed. She slowly extended a shaking hand, and, even more slowly, began to pull the curtain back. Then she stopped as soon as rain-blurred moonlight flickered onto the youngest Potter's face. _He looks so much like James…_ Lily thought with an aching heart.

"This isn't allowed," she whispered, eyes still glued to her son's face. "The Elders… specifically told me and James…"

"There are too many barriers around this school for the Elders to see us," Chris returned, still gazing out the window. He hadn't looked up, yet, Lily noted vaguely. "And I'm certainly not going to be the one to tell them."

Lily continued watching her son sleep for a moment, completely incapable of looking away. All words, all thoughts, escaped her. She just stared at him.

Of course, over the years, she and her husband had looked down on him from Up There, but even _that_ was forbidden by their bosses. This was the first time in fifteen years she had seen him in person… She wasn't going to leave now just for some stupid rules.

"How did you orb in here?" Chris asked softly, and she finally tore her gaze away from her son to see that Chris was now looking at her. There was some emotion-- some mixture of emotions-- in his eyes, mostly hidden, that she couldn't identify. She didn't think it had anything to do with his question, though.

"The barriers only block out conventional teleportation like Apparation, and evil transportation like shimmering, flaming, and blinking," she explained, eyes wandering back to Harry. "It doesn't apply to any method a whitelighter would use."

Chris didn't reply to that, but merely slid off the windowsill and headed for the door, apparently to give her time alone with Harry. She was surprised he would be so sympathetic about this… "Thank you," she murmured, casting a grateful look to him over her shoulder.

He merely shrugged, then closed the door behind him, that same unidentifiable combination of emotions flickering behind the closed doors of his eyes.

Lily, concerned about that but unable to think too much of it, turned back to Harry. He looked remarkably like James, but she could remember that as a baby, he had her eyes. She wished he would open them so she could see once more… but she couldn't wake him. He couldn't see her. Not yet.

With an unsteady little smile, Lily reached out and let her hand hover indecisively over his head a moment before finally bringing it down to stroke his messy black hair. His eyelids fluttered at the contact and he leaned into her hand.

That was it. Silent tears streamed down Lily Potter's face and she muffled an overwhelmed, yet relieved laugh behind her other hand as she continued watching her sleeping son.

She didn't know how much time passed as she just stared at Harry, but after a while, she managed to pry herself away. She had mainly come here just to see Harry but used the convincing excuse to herself that it was because her charge was here, too.

But, the fact of the matter was that her charge _was_ here, too, and she couldn't just come and ignore him. He was past due on another moral talk, anyway.

Lily stood and, giving her teenage son one last look, walked out the door and down into the common room, where Chris was sitting on that windowsill… _smoking_. And it didn't smell like a regular cigarette, either.

Lily fancied herself still in 'mother mode' as she strode across the room to him and snatched the joint out of his hand. She resisted the temptation to smack him upside the head, as well.

He looked up, offended, but when he saw who it was, he merely rolled his eyes and looked back out the window. Lily was about to start telling him off when she saw the same look in his eyes. He definitely wasn't high, if she'd had any doubts before.

She sat down on the arm of a chair beside him, watching him with concern. He didn't look at her, and knowing Chris as she did, it was probably because he didn't trust his eyes not to give him away if he tried to lie. That concerned her even more. They had gotten past the lying stage in their angel-charge relationship to the point that he just didn't answer if he was considering lying.

She decided to take an indirect route into the conversation she wanted to have. "Thanks for letting me have time alone with Harry," she began quietly. The heavy silence of the room made it hard to want to speak any louder than she was. "I sort of expected you to… give me a hard time about it."

Chris just shrugged. When she continued giving him 'that look', however, silently prodding him to speak, he conceded, "You love your son. Believe it or not, I can respect stuff like that."

He still didn't look at her. She frowned. The tone in which he'd said it also struck her as odd. There was something she was missing, here…

Suddenly, it struck her. He lived at the Resistance base. What mother would allow her sixteen year old son to take such an involved role in a war? _One that isn't around. His family was tortured to death_. "You miss your own mother," she whispered, watching him closely for his reaction.

It was to scoff. "Yeah. Right."

Lily gave him a disbelieving look. "Christopher, your mother _died_. Of _course_ you miss her."

Finally, Chris turned to face her, and his expression was even more closed than usual. "Look, Lily, I'm very sorry my mother died, and I feel more guilty about it than I think I can live with, but I _do not _miss her. Now can we talk about something else? Or, better yet, _not_ talk?"

Now, Lily was confused. No matter what emotion it was in his eyes, she knew it wasn't one that'd be present if he were lying. But why would he not miss his deceased mother? Why would he be so assertive about it?

"You said… you could respect a mother that loved her son… How could you not miss your own?" she asked softly, studying him.

He glared at the scenery out the window, once more ignoring her and choosing not to answer.

Feeling, once more, as if she were missing something, Lily opened her mouth to ask him about it but was interrupted with the materialization of orblights. Next thing she knew, James was standing next to her and Chris was dropping down from the windowsill to leave the room.

"No, please, don't leave on my account," James said, and Lily hoped she was the only one that could tell how forced the politeness was. Apparently the two still had issues with each other.

"Well, one of us has to be the one to do it, and I can't exactly see you leaving on mine," Chris retorted icily as he walked out the portrait hole.

"Curfew was over four hours ago!" Lily called, running to try and catch him before he left and broke the school rules she had once held so dear. Nope. The portrait slammed shut.

Sighing, Lily turned back to see her husband watching her, eagerness barely contained in his features. "Is Harry…?" he trailed off, looking at the staircase to the boys' dormitories.

Eyes sparkling, Lily nodded. "He really does look exactly like you," she breathed.

James grinned and orbed up to the dormitories to see for himself. Rolling her eyes while thinking wearily, _Personal Gain_, Lily reluctantly followed suit.

James beamed softly when he saw his teenage son sleeping in his own old dormitory, in his old _bed_, nonetheless. Absolutely glowing with paternal love, James touched the side of Harry's face as though to confirm that this wasn't a dream. A smile tugged on his lips when his hand didn't merely phase through it, like a ghost. This was real.

"Looks like he didn't turn out too bad," James commented softly, unable to take his eyes away from his son.

"Not bad at all," Lily sighed fondly, coming up behind James and snaking her arms around his waist. Her expression turned somber. "I just wish…"

"I know," James whispered softly. The two gazed down at their son silently.

"I hate to break up this little family reunion," began a familiar voice from behind them, "but I am bored to death with that stuck-up Indonesian charge. And the American and Welsh ones aren't much better. Entertain me," Sirius demanded.

James smirked and Lily just shook her head. A much more fit-looking/younger-looking Sirius walked up beside them, also gazing down at Harry. His no-longer-sunken-in eyes softened considerably. "Damn, I miss him. Why can't he be one of our charges? Cough-cough-_mine_-cough-cough."

"Must have something to do with the fact that we're related… by blood or by friendship," James muttered with a fair bit of resentment.

"No," said Lily softly. "It's just that only Wicca-witches can be assigned whitelighters. They aren't allowed to use their magic for personal gain, only for protecting innocents. Therefore, they need more guidance and healing than Wizarding witches and wizards."

"Okay, Mrs. I Swallowed The Whitelighter Handbook," Sirius teased, rolling his eyes.

Lily didn't humor him with a response, but looked quietly back to her son. Sirius got the point and joined her and James in watching Harry sleep.

Needless to say, him being Sirius, he got bored after about five minutes of silent staring.

"So, I was supposed to be asking you if you'd heard of a demon called… _Nivessel_… I think…. He's supposed to be some new rising power, leading some band of demons against the Source or something like that."

"Nivessel?" James repeated, making a face. "Where do they _come up _with these names?"

"Hell if I know," snorted Sirius. He was about to continue with some wisecrack comment, but stopped, sniffing. He frowned and looked confused for a moment. "Is that…?" He stopped when he saw Lily still clutching Chris' "cigarette". His jaw dropped. _"Have you been smoking __**marijuana**__?"_

Lily jumped in surprise, then realized what she still had in her hand. Shocked, she threw the joint to the ground as though it had burned her (which it might have). "No! No, no, no! That was Chris'… I took it from him right before you showed up." She hastily explained when Sirius and James both gave her a solemnly disproving expressions, crossing their arms and shaking their heads sadly. She glared. "Stop that! You know I hate smokers, much less marijuana smokers."

Sirius was about to retort, still supporting that mocking disappointed expression, when his eyes lit up. "Wait-- you hate your -_interesting-_ marijuana-smoking charge? He's the interesting one, right? Can I have him, then?"

Lily stared open-mouthed. "I didn't say that!" she countered, but inwardly was horrified with herself because she knew she had. Why had she said that? She didn't hate Chris, no matter what bad habits he happened to have. And Sirius… She didn't want to give up on Chris, now. She was sure she was on the verge of a breakthrough with him.

"Oh? So you're getting through to him, now, and he's not treating you like the scum of the earth?"

Lily glared. "He's never treated me like the scum of the earth," she snapped. "He may be a little rude or closed off at times, but he hasn't been _horrible_." Lily proceeded to glare at James, who must have been the source of Sirius' misinformation. "I'm not giving up on him, guys, so just stop, already."

"Lily," James all but whined. "You _know_ I don't like the way he treats you. Sirius would be used to dealing with Chris'… _delinquent tendencies_, and I don't care what Chris says to him." He shot Padfoot a smirk. Sirius returned it with a smack upside Prongs' head.

Lily gave James a look. Had he not been supportive of her mere hours ago at the Resistance headquarters? Obviously he and Sirius had been talking.

She sighed. "James… He's lost everyone close to him. I don't… I don't want to keep changing things on him. He needs some sort of constant in his life, and if I leave him now, it'll disrupt things all over again. He deserves better." When James raised his eyebrows, pointedly hinting that he believed otherwise, Lily's gaze saddened even more and she looked away. "He does. He's a good kid when it comes to the important things in life. I've seen him with his friends when they need him, physically and emotionally. He's there for them. And he's actually pretty funny when he's happy."

There was a pause, then James commented bemusedly, "The thought of that kid happy is kind of scary."

Lily rolled her eyes. They just didn't understand how heartwarming it was when the brunette orphan cracked a genuine smile. But how could they? Sirius had only met him once, and James was always… well, James had also only personally met the boy twice, once of which they'd said hi and gone their separate ways, and the other time James tied him to a chair to keep him from leaving…

"Tell you what, Lily," Sirius said, sitting down regally at the foot of Chris' empty bed and lacing his fingers in a very Dumbledore-ish way. He gave Lily an intense look. Lily arched an amused eyebrow while James visibly tried to contain his laughter. Sirius glared them both into seriousness, then seated himself more comfortably on the bed. He cleared his throat, then continued professionally, "If Christopher doesn't start opening up to you by the end of this month, I get to try a hand at it." When Lily immediately started to tell him off for thinking she'd agree to such a wager, he added, "Have you ever thought that he's just trying to keep up a strong front because he doesn't want a girl to see him fall apart? Honestly, Lily, maybe all he needs is a father-figure. From what I saw when I met him that one time a few weeks ago, he didn't grow up with a father around."

Lily's eyes narrowed. "How could you tell after meeting him _once_?"

Sirius gave her a flat expression. "A man just knows these things. Trust me. He and his father either weren't close, or they hated each other's guts. Probably both."

For the first time, Lily actually considered her husband's best friend seriously. She herself hadn't ever thought of Chris' relationship with his father. She had only just found out that he had some issues of some sort with his mother, and she could see that even though Sirius was making fun of being serious about this, he was, in fact, very serious. He might be bored and looking for a challenge, but that didn't mean he wouldn't give the assignment his all, if he actually got it.

She looked at Sirius unenthusiastically. "You… a father figure?" she managed at length, doubtful.

Sirius became uncharacteristically quiet as he suddenly let his gaze drop to the floor. "…I thought I did a pretty good job with Harry, at least… for a while…" he mumbled, twiddling his fingers.

Lily felt the statement hit her like a brick wall. _Yes_. He had been a pretty decent godfather to Harry for the year or so they had together. From what Lily and James had witnessed, he had treated Harry like something akin to both a brother and a father. Harry clearly loved the man.

Feeling her stomach squirm with shameful guilt, Lily sank onto the head of Chris' bed, mind spinning as she realized what her decision was going to be, now that she had to face logic. She wasn't getting far in her relationship with the boy at all. She just didn't know how to act, what to say when faced with his cold hostility. Maybe he really would be better off with a male 'role-model'… (that still sounded strange when in context with _Sirius Black_)

She sighed heavily. "A month, you said?" She asked, the words tasting like acid on her tongue.

Sirius grinned.

"He's waking up," James muttered from the center of the room where Harry's bed was, the bed's occupant beginning to toss and turn. "…It's time to go."

Both Lily and Sirius' faces fell at this news, but they understood why, nevertheless. If Harry saw them now, he wouldn't be able to let them go. He wasn't ready to face them and then lose them all over again. He wasn't ready…

With a sad smile, James ruffled his son's messy hair gently. "Goodbye, Harry. I'll visit you again soon," he whispered, then turned his gaze over to his wife. "I need to go check on my charge in Virginia, love, so I'll see you in the morning."

Lily smiled, then kissed him goodbye on the cheek. He orbed out. Sirius walked over and likewise ruffled Harry's hair before saying a similar farewell and orbing out. Lily hesitated a moment longer, watching her son's nocturnal distress with much the same feeling. Wishing to give him peace as he slept, she held a hand over his forehead and let the healing glow shine on him. There was a second of no change, then his tossing began to reduce until he lay still, a serene expression on his visage.

Then his brilliant green eyes began to open.

Lily's breath hitched. They were her eyes. They were her son's eyes. They were looking directly at her.

Still somewhat asleep and calmed because of the healing glow, Harry smiled sleepily. "Mom…?" he murmured softly.

Instantly, tears rolled down Lily's cheeks at the title. "Yes, Harry," she whispered, bending down at the side of his bed. He watched her with the same sleepy, bleary eyes, still not quite awake. Lily smiled a watery parody as she struggled not to fall apart completely. She had to go, before she wouldn't be able. Feeling more love and sorrow than she thought she could bear, Lily kissed her teenaged boy on the forehead and breathed, "I love you, my son."

And she orbed away.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry blinked repeatedly. Had he really just seen…?

No. He must have still been sleeping. _But she seemed so real…_

He shook his head as though to clear it and sat up in bed. Of course he hadn't seen his dead mother. There was no trace of her presence lingering in the room, no trace that it had even been there in the first place. …She had just been a strange continuation of his dream… _His dream!_

He groaned and rubbed his throbbing scar. It had been a vision, of course. His dreams were always visions after his mind had been attacked. But it hadn't seemed too important… so he merely rolled over and went back to sleep.

* * *

When Harry and Ron went down to breakfast that morning, they found Hermione already reading the morning paper and sipping pumpkin juice. Chris hadn't been in the dorm, Harry had observed, and neither was he here. Harry merely shook his head at his new roommate's strange sleeping habits and sat down. Hermione's eyes immediately shot up, and, without a word, she dove for her bag and began rummaging through it.

Harry and Ron barely had time to share she's-at-it-again looks before she straightened up and slammed a sheet of parchment in front of them, her cinnamon eyes alight with rapt attention.

"I wrote down the names of the curses, rituals, and potions Professor Snape and Chris talked about yesterday," she began as Harry unfolded the parchment and skimmed her small, cramped handwriting. "The Dark stuff-- I had to look through the Restricted Section for hours to find even a _sentence_ about some of it. Some were even outlawed to speak of, because the Ministry wants them forgotten so badly. But the ones I found… well, you can see… they're _bad_. I don't understand how Chris-- how even _Snape_-- knew some of these off the tops of their heads."

Indeed, Harry discovered, the ones she had found were bad. Very bad. Horrible. Things that made Harry question why someone had taken the time to invent them in the first place. Things that made him question the human/Wizarding race that they would take time to perfect them.

There was one curse that conjured bugs which would delve into a person's skin and reproduce in its fleshy host until there were so many they would burst through the skin and consumed the host… _slowly_. Another potion forced the drinker to see his/her worst memories until he/she carved out his/her own eyes. Then that potion killed the drinker and the maker. Another Dark Art-- a ritual-- roasted the victim's flesh from the bone outward while heating up the blood to a boil. As soon as they person died, the body would explode and kill anyone within twenty meters.

And the list went on.

Harry made a disgusted face and threw the list back on the table, no longer interested. Ron picked it up and asked curiously, skimming, "What was the one with Snape's mother…?"

Hermione's visage took on a dark quality. She all but whispered, "It doesn't have any effect until a woman becomes pregnant. Then, in the second trimester, the womb explodes, killing the baby and permanently turning the mother into a male--" Ron instantly burst into howling laughter. "RONALD WEASLEY!" Hermione literally screamed, turning a furious red and jumping to her feet in anger. "THAT IS **NOT** FUNNY! I DON'T CARE HOW MUCH YOU DON'T LIKE SNAPE; CHRIS SHOULDN'T HAVE SAID THAT!"

"Chris shouldn't have said what?" Chris asked distractedly, not once looking up from his book as he walked over to them and sat down beside a still guffawing Ron. He absently reached for a goblet of pumpkin juice, which promptly turned into steaming black coffee, and took a long sip, not pausing in his reading.

"That Snape's mother should have taken _Uteractus_," Hermione answered his question tersely, glaring. "That was uncalled for. I can see why we had so many points deducted."

Not only was the smirk that pulled slowly across Chris' lips shameless, it was freaking _anti_-innocent. He did not reply, and continued reading, now with that smile.

Hermione's jaw dropped. "You're not going to apologize? You're not even _defending_ yourself?"

Chris now let that smile become a full fledged grin. He flipped the page and continued reading.

Hermione clenched her teeth, glaring darkly. When Chris still failed to respond, she slammed _The Morning Prophet_ down on the table and stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she did so. With one last furious glare at Chris, she marched from the Great Hall.

Ron finally stopped laughing and sat back up, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, muttering about how great that had been. Harry heaved a sigh, wondering if Chris was worth having fights with his friends over. Chris just continued reading. Harry glanced dismissively at the title but found it wasn't English.

"What language is that?" he asked curiously. Chris replied impassively that it was Korean. "Where'd you learn _Korean_?"

Chris finally glanced up, this time to appraise Harry. He looked back down at the book as he replied blankly, "Whitelighters can speak whatever language their charges can, and since my father was one, I can catch on to any language after seeing or hearing it."

Harry was about to 'ah' his understanding, but stopped short. "What's a whitelighter?"

Chris didn't look up this time. "They're what people who've done good deeds become after they die-- they're like guardian angels. Anyone who practices Wicca has one, and so do future whitelighters, so you've probably got one, too."

Harry blinked. He had done a few good deeds in life, he knew… like saving half the Weasley family's lives, and stopping Voldemort a few times… so he qualified to be a-- a _whitelighter_ when he died? That was pretty cool, but… "I don't think I have a whitelighter."

Again, Chris continued reading as he spoke. "It's probably just a random teacher or neighbor… maybe a handyman or something… They're not supposed to let you know they're your whitelighter."

"Do you know who yours is?"

"…Yup."

Harry was about to ask him how he found out, but a quick look from Chris made him shut his mouth. As they got to their feet, preparing to leave, Harry suddenly remembered Slughorn's class… Chris' parents' marriage… _"Your mother married a guardian angel?"_

"Her and her sisters' guardian angel, to be exact," Chris replied, taking the last swallow of coffee and putting his book away at last. He still didn't meet Harry's or Ron's eyes as they began walking towards their dooms-- I mean, Defense Against the Dark Arts.

"…So you're half angel?"

"In the flesh." His tone was started to become sarcastic again. Harry put it down to the insistent prying and stopped his interrogation, not wanting to witness that Halliwell temper they had discussed last night, but he was still extremely curious.

Chris' being half angel made the ex-Death Eater theory even harder to believe… Although those Dark Spells Hermione had found… How did Chris know all of them, just-like-that? Researching the Dark Arts and memorizing every name and description didn't sound like a very angel-ish thing to do… Did the whitelighter blood affect his actions and personality, or was it just that-- blood?

Harry shook himself from another round of conspiracy theories before they could really get started when he suddenly remembered one more thing he needed to ask about. _His dream…_

"Do you know a _Daeku_?"

Chris glanced over at Harry briefly before answering slowly, "Yeah… why?"

"I had another vision last night of him and Voldemort talking. He didn't use a wand for magic, so I thought he might be from your… _world_," Harry finished for lack of a better word.

Chris actually stopped in his tracks. Harry and Ron stopped as well, both looking puzzled and slightly concerned.

Chris stated bluntly, "Harry, I'm confused."

Harry didn't know what was the right thing to say in such a situation, so he just waited for Chris to continue.

"I thought I taught you how to build mental barriers," Chris continued, and he finally looked directly at Harry, glaring mildly. _"What are you doing still having visions?"_

Harry blinked. "Er… I was _sleeping?"_

Chris crossed his arms. "Your mind is most vulnerable when you sleep," he said, but it wasn't in a sympathetic way. It was condescending. "Why didn't you leave a wall up?"

"_How am I supposed to concentrate on keeping a wall up while I'm asleep?"_

Chris raised an eyebrow. Before he could answer, however, a voice snapped, "Potter, Weasley,… Halliwell… inside, now. Ten points… apiece… from Gryffindor for being tardy."

Harry clenched his teeth but managed to keep himself from spitting a comment in return. He and Ron walked the rest of the way into the classroom and took seats in the back beside Hermione and Ernie McMillan.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris had only to look at Severus Snape to know that the man was consciously hiding something.

His glare hardened. "What's going on?"

But that wasn't the question to be asking. If Snape was hiding something, anything, it would be the time or details of Voldemort's inevitable attack. Chris changed his question. "When?"

"That's none of your concern," said Snape shortly, holding the classroom door open pointedly.

Chris didn't yield. "If Voldemort's going to attack the school to get to me, I think it _is _my concern. Of course, if he's attacking the school, it's _everybody's_ concern, but, you know, it's for me, so… you should just tell me."

Snape raised an eyebrow disdainfully down at Chris, but he clearly saw that Chris wasn't leaving until he had some sort of answer.

"It's nothing to worry about," he replied quietly. "I highly doubt the Dark Lord will be able to get past the barriers, especially now that Dumbledore knows of this impending… _attack_. You should just act normal… as hard as that may be for you in _any_ situation…" he trailed off with a sneer.

Chris glared in return, even as he thought out this development. Dumbledore knew of the attack. And the barriers… they _were_ incredibly strong. If Chris couldn't get past them even when Dumbledore wasn't concentrating all his energy on them, he didn't see that Voldemort would be able to. Logic told Chris that this attempt would be unsuccessful.

_But since when have logic and reality ever lined up?_

Suppressing that thought, Chris admitted that there was nothing he could do at the moment, even if this attack _did_ pose a threat. He could only wait with the rest of the castle's occupants.

Still glaring coldly at the professor, Chris strode into the classroom without another word.

…

The day went agonizingly slow. _Agonizingly_ slow. Not only was it because Hermione kept shooting him narrow looks, but word had somehow gotten across the entire school that 'that kid with the white hair' was actually from a completely different world of magic where they fought demons and didn't use wands. They also _somehow_ knew (cough_Slughorn_cough) that Chris was from a very famous line of these evil-fighters, and that he was half angel.

People whispered and pointed, and a few braver souls actually tried to talk to him about his experiences and asked him to demonstrate his powers.

The young demon-fighter always answered the first questions with, "I'd rather concentrate on my work, if you don't mind." But on the occasions that didn't drive away students, he'd start responding shortly with a healthy dose of sarcasm, trying to make them dislike him and go away. There were only three occasions in which the sarcasm didn't work and he just dropped all pretenses and told the clinging story-seekers to go screw themselves. _That_ technique had Harry and Ron rolling on the floor, slapping the ground, even crying with mirth, every time.

"I don't get what's so funny about it," Chris grumbled as the latest clingy freaks ran for their lives and Harry and Ron lay panting in the middle of the corridor, cackling whenever they had breath.

"Y-you're so-- _a-a-antisocial_," gasped Ron between peels of laughter. "Harry's n-not even th-th-_that_ bad!"

Chris just crossed his arms and mumbled something about him being more social if more people would stop being idiots. Harry and Ron laughed harder.

* * *

That night, the four were yet again the last ones left in the Common Room. Hermione had apparently let Chris' unrecanted remark about Snape's mother slide, because she was now speaking to him again. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that it was her curiosity over his being half-angel that was the real reason behind her forgiveness, because she kept subtly trying to direct conversation to that topic all night. Chris subtly directed it towards something else every time.

It was almost midnight when the witch-lighter suddenly stopped mid-sentence in a debate with Hermione over which fungus caused the illness in their homework scenario. He had been sitting on the floor in front of the fire but now moved with surprising agility to the window, his face suddenly even more expressionless than usual.

He muttered a single swearword then sprinted across the room to the portrait hole, but it wouldn't budge when he pushed at it. It was magically sealed. He let out a stream of foul, violent words and stood back to use his powers on it.

"Chris, what--?" Hermione began as she, Harry, and Ron went to the window to see for themselves, but she stopped suddenly with a gasp. "…Oh my God…"

The Dark Mark, the blazing green skull with a serpent tongue, the mark left behind where ever Death Eaters had murdered… was hanging in the air above Hogsmeade. And, from the distance, they could make out the billowing smoke of the fire that was ravaging the small village.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione tore their gazes away from the window with dread-frozen insides to where Chris was pushing the flames from the fireplace at the immobile portrait with his outstretched hands. The fire gushed and swirled against the back of the canvas, trying to burn through, but it had no effect. Chris snapped his wrists to the side, and the flames snapped out of existence. He then turned and flicked his wrist at the nearest armchair and sent it slamming into the back of the portrait so hard it flew all the way across the room when it bounced back. He caught it telekinetically just before it slammed into the trio at the window. He sent it back to its place and began throwing poems at the portrait. Some of the 'spells' were intricate and clearly pre-composed, and some were short, childish, and/or violent.

Nothing worked.

Finally, Harry interrupted, "Chris, _Dumbledore probably already knows_. He's probably getting help ready as we speak! An--"

"That's the problem," Chris returned icily, slowly turning to face them. His eyes were strangely cold for someone speaking to newfound friends. "You said Voldemort was talking to Daeku? Daeku's specialty is strategy. Voldemort probably wanted his input, and he'll have helped Voldemort figure out how to get past the barriers. The proof?" he asked, anticipating the question, "Right now, Voldemort is standing outside the front gates to the school-- the only barriers he can't get past using magic alone-- and all he has to do is wait for someone to go out through them so he can slip inside at the same time." Chris gestured at the window… at Hogsmeade, eyes even colder. "_That_ is just a distraction to get people to go out through the gates. And judging from Dumbledore's 'helpers' moving towards them… I'd say his plan is working."

Silence. After a moment of pure shock for the trio, Chris glanced back at the portrait, this time as if something had caught his attention. At length, he added shortly, "And some Death Eater has conjured dementors in the Great Hall to keep the teachers busy while Voldemort moves up here."

The trio stared, all words dying on their tongues. The taste was cold and bitter to Harry, especially when his scar began throbbing, providing proof that Voldemort was near, probably just outside the front gates as Chris predicted. What was there to say-- to do? Dumbledore himself had obviously locked them inside the tower if Chris couldn't get it open using all his resources as he had. And Dumbledore was clearly playing into the trap, non-the-wiser.

At last, Harry managed to ask weakly, "How do you _know_ this?-- This _plan_?"

Chris, beginning to zone out as his empathy picked up on the dementors, answered softly, "…Because I'm a pretty good strategist, myself."

**

* * *

A/N: Yes, I know Chris and Lily disagree with who gets a whitelighter. It'll show up again. ;)**

**Please review!**


	11. Of The Starting Game

**Disclaimer: I own nothing... again... Nothing at all... ...Man, I need a job...**

**Chapter 11: Of The Starting Game**

_At last, Harry managed to ask weakly, "How do you _know_ this?-- This _plan_?"_

_Chris, beginning to zone out as his empathy picked up on the dementors, answered softly, "…Because I'm a pretty good strategist, myself."_

Of course, the Golden Trio didn't realize just how much of an understatement that was, and Chris wasn't going to spell it out for them. He didn't have the time to lay out all his sins on the table, just now. He had to get the Gryffindors out of the tower, immediately. Voldemort was going to come straight to them, and they had no way to escape…

He muttered another foul word, this time in Italian, then forced himself into his notorious strategic mindset.

"Harry and Hermione, go check all the windows in the girls' dorms. Ron and I will check the boys'." Simple enough, but, of course,

"Chris, _we're in a tower! _Even if the windows _do_ open--" Hermione began.

"I'll conjure a rope ladder and everyone can climb down, more or less safely," Chris finished, trying not to sound impatient. "Hermione, that portrait hole _will not _open from our side; Dumbledore put a damn powerful Entrapment charm on every wall in this room, so Voldemort will still be able to find us, but we won't be able to get out. And I don't know about you, but when I woke up this morning and made that mental to-do list for today, dueling Voldemort with no way of escape was _not_ on it."

Hermione blinked. "Why would Dumbledore put an Entrapment charm around here?" she asked meekly. "People can get through Entrapment charms… just not _out_…"

Chris gave her a wry look. She finally seemed to be understanding the reality of the situation. "He just wants to keep us away from the fight. He doesn't think Voldemort will be able to get past the wards, so there'd be no reason for him to make sure we're _protected_ as well as locked in."

Comprehension set in on all their features. Dumbledore really was playing into the trap like a blind fool. …This wasn't good.

By silent agreement, they all took off up the staircases to the dormitories, Hermione holding onto Harry so the stairs wouldn't turn into a slide on him.

Chris took the fifth, sixth, and seventh year dorm rooms, while Ron took the first four. No windows opened, and none shattered when hit repeatedly with a lamp. They were completely sealed.

Chris swore yet again, then sprinted down the stairs to see if Harry and Hermione had found the same results.

"They open!" Hermione called from above. "Hold on, and I'll come bring you up."

"No need," Chris returned, then chanted a quick spell that froze the stairs as they were. He took them two at a time on the way up, and found Harry and Hermione in the sixth years' dorm room, holding the window open and looking out. It faced the front gates, where the Order members and Aurors were only seconds away.

Feeling his heart fluttering faster, now, Chris asked hurriedly, "Are there any windows facing away from the gates? We don't want anyone to see where-"

"The seventh years'," Hermione cut him off. "Come on!"

"Harry, start waking everyone up, and get them in the seventh years' dorm," Chris ordered as he ran after Hermione into the aforementioned room. "And tell Ron to do the same!"

"The staircase--?" Harry and Hermione both began.

"Frozen-- guys can use it-- Now hurry-- Voldemort's already inside!" Chris explained hastily, cringing as he felt the oh-so familiar heart freezing presence, then chanted a short on-the-spot spell to conjure a long rope ladder. He secured it to the foot of a still-slumbering girl's bed, then chucked the rest out the window. For a while, there was silence as it fell, then the last few feet hit the ground with a muffled, distant _thump_. He paused for a moment to sense where McGonagall was, then told Hermione, "Lead the students around the side of the castle until you come to the fourth window at ground level. Break that and go in; it should be McGonagall's secondary office. She's heading towards it as we speak. By the time you get there, she'll know that Voldemort's in the castle, so follow her instructions. And remember, _stay out of sight!"_

Hermione nodded dutifully, eyes glistening with fear but stolid determination. "And what are you going to do?" she asked as Chris made his way out of the room, which was beginning to fill with bleary-eyed, confused, and frightened students.

He stopped at the doorway to look back at her as she told Ginny to go first and keep everyone together at the bottom. She looked up again, waiting for his answer.

"I'm going to try and keep _him_ from getting in," Chris said, tactfully leaving out Voldemort's name in order to not scare the students even more. With that, he made his way through the converging crowd and down the stairs.

In the common room, he observed the groups of boys going between their dorm staircase to the girls', stumbling from sleep and talking in uneasy whispers. Above, Harry could be heard yelling at the sound sleepers, and there were crashes from where Ron was breaking things to wake up the snoring males.

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at their tactics, Chris turned back to the most pressing matters. _Always put up the last defenses first, _he mentally repeated the Halliwells' siege mantra. _They're the most important and they usually protect a smaller space, so they're faster to put up._

He summoned the power crystals from Dumbledore's office and set them up around the path the boys were taking to the girls' staircase. The crystals wouldn't let evil pass through. That would protect them for a while.

_Next defense_. The portrait hole. That entire wall, actually, in case Voldemort just decided to blow it all apart.

Shaking off the sense of dread caused by the roaming dementors, Chris tried to think up good shielding spells. The more common ones he always used in these cases would be no good in the face of the Dark Lord…

Still feeling dread and hopelessness clawing insistently at his consciousness, Chris began to chant.

Not even two fairly intricate spells later, however, Harry and Ron suddenly appeared at his side, watching the portrait hole as though waiting.

Chris raised an eyebrow and stopped chanting. "What the hell do y'all think y'all are doing?"

Harry and Ron both gave him looks. "You know," Harry commented, drawing his wand and watching the door again, "it's very hard to take you seriously when you say things like "y'all" and not just once, but twice in a sentence." Chris glared, but Harry ignored it. "We're not leaving you to fight Voldemort alone."

"Nor am I," stated Hermione, coming down the girls' staircase and joining them, drawing her wand as she came.

"_You're supposed to be leading the kids to safety! What the hell, woman!" _Chris exclaimed, aghast that she had left the ignorant students on their own.

Hermione's eyes narrowed and Chris took a step back, instantly realizing his mistake. _"Woman?"_ she repeated dangerously, and Chris immediately held up his hands in surrender.

"My bad. Sorry, sorry, sorry!" he squeaked.

Hermione still didn't look impressed, and Harry and Ron stared at Chris as though he had grown an extra head.

Chris felt the boys' disbelief, and he explained nervously, still watching Hermione in case of attack, "…Women are scary when angry."

Harry and Ron frowned in vague understanding, and Hermione chuckled, looking pleased with herself. "Don't worry," she began in regards to the Gryffindors. "I told Ginny what to do and she's--"

However, at that moment, the entire wall with the portrait hole was blown away in a massive explosion that had Chris crying out in pain, folding to his knees as the spells he had grounded to himself were brutally destroyed. The Golden Trio dropped to the ground, shielding their faces from the flying debris.

Gasping for breath, Chris tried to pull himself together quickly despite the tearing pain in his chest where his enchantments had been ripped to shreds. He took another deep breath, trying not to choke on the swirling dust in the air, and forced himself to get a grip.

With grace that only reached the surface, Chris swept back to his feet and stood facing the dark figure behind the smoke and dust. Snakelike red eyes almost glowed back at him. He lifted a hand and brought it back down slowly, telekinetically parting the fine debris betwixt them, his eyes never leaving the cold scarlet spheres of Voldemort's.

The Dark Lord smirked with thin lips and took a few smooth steps into the room. "Impatient to see me again, my little escape artist?" he queried softly, snake-eyes briefly taking in the other occupants of the room before moving back to his assignment.

"Oh, yes," came the sarcastic response, just as soft. "These last two days without you have been… torturous. Whatever took you so long?"

"Sarcasm does not become you," the Dark Lord drawled.

"And intelligent phrases like that do not become _you_," Chris returned effortlessly, moving slightly so that he was in front of the trio, who had gotten to their feet and were watching anxiously, but with steady grips on their wands.

"You don't want to be pushing my buttons right now, Christopher," Voldemort whispered warningly as he began to make a predatory circle around the small group. "The Source is very angry with you, you know. I doubt he'll desire to keep you alive much longer… and as soon as he gives the word… _your life is mine_."

"Ooo, I'm shaking," Chris said and gave a fake shiver then proceeded to ogle the Dark Lord. "Oh, Tommy, love, how you frighten me so." He batted his eyelashes adorably, as though frightening him were the best thing in the world.

The trio's mouths dropped open in pure shock, and Voldemort's face developed angry red patches. He flicked his wand sharply, sending a jet of murky green light at Chris, who flicked his wrist and sent it straight back. Voldemort jerked his wand, absorbing the light back into it. He slashed his wand violently, sending a flash of dark blue light at the Halliwell, who held up his hand, slowing down the flash, then clenched his hand into a fist, pulling the sheet of light into a compacted sphere hovering in midair. He threw out his hand, sending it at Voldemort almost faster than the eye could follow. Voldemort was hurtled backwards through the wall separating the boy's staircase from the common room, then rolled down the stairs.

He slashed his wand again as he clambered to his feet, this time sending a jet of purple light at Chris, who conjured a red force shield over his hand and held it between himself and the spell. The spell hit it with a resounding _GONG_ so hard Chris was pushed back several inches, squinting his eyes against the dispersed wind in its wake. The red shield over his hand swirled into the color of the spell, swirling angrily around his hand like a serpent.

Chris waved his fingers, watching the spell take on the shape of a flame before falling back into the serpentine shape. "What is this?" he asked curiously.

Voldemort raised his eyebrows. "You honestly believe I'm going to answer that?"

Chris waved his fingers again, watching it form a flame briefly again, then fall back into the snake. "I want to say it's _Verion Courtesk_," he continued, observing the strange spell and ignoring Voldemort's question, "but that generally forms a volcano shape when disturbed, not a flame…"

"It is related to the _Verion Courtesk _curse," the Dark Lord remarked softly, watching his target play with the curse interestedly. "Have you heard of _Courtesk De-Markflairt_?"

"Curse of the mental fire?" Chris translated from an old demonic tongue, frowning. "Never. What's it do?"

Voldemort moved towards him, eyes also on the purple flame/snake. He had never seen anyone hold the curse in this way before. "It forces the victim to relive every moment in their life they made the wrong decision," he responded, not denying the intelligent youth information, even if he did plan on killing him as soon as he was allowed.

"Right and wrong all depend on perspective," Chris countered, intrigued.

"So it shows what the caster wants you to perceive as wrong, even if you previously thought it was right. And in order to make you believe it was wrong, it gives you the sensation of being burned alive until you resent the memory enough to change your mind about it. Then the process is repeated for the next memory."

Chris frowned, watching the flame and serpent alternate. "That does sound pretty unpleasant, doesn't it?" he asked rhetorically, then abruptly clenched his hand into a fist, extinguishing the curse. He looked back to Voldemort, who was now standing quite close. "So why does he want me back? You and he both know I won't do a damn thing either of you order me to."

A sneer twisted the lips of the Dark Lord. He observed the boy and took his time before finally answering in a soft hiss, "You haven't been sufficiently punished for your acts of treason, yet. Personally, I am looking forward to _that_ the most… Another, he believes that, with the right amount of persuasion, you _will_ find yourself following orders for our side, again… And even if that does not happen, we would rather have you rotting in a cell below us than working with the Resistance against us."

Chris blinked. "Hm. Those are some pretty good reasons," he conceded with a one-sided frown. "Too bad they all involve me actually _coming with you_ which is, as you've probably gathered, not something I intend to do."

The Dark Lord's self-satisfied sneer widened. "I know you loathe it here, Christopher," he whispered, circling Chris alone now, closely. "You're trapped inside a peaceful school with people in authority above you… surrounded by children your own age… surrounded by obnoxious, hopeless idiots… You're just waiting for the opportune moment to escape, aren't you? Ah, Christopher, you are so easy to predict… It almost isn't any fun…"

His expression not changing from one of pure cold darkness, Chris flicked his wrist at his side and Voldemort was sent flying through the air, again. He crashed into the stone wall above the fireplace and fell back to the ground.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Chris apologized with mock wide-eyed-innocence. "I thought you would have predicted that."

The Dark Lord swept back to his feet, looking murderous. He raised his wand, mouth opening to shout an incantation, but a calm voice interrupted.

"I wouldn't do that, Tom."

Everyone's heads snapped in the direction of the portrait/wall hole, where Dumbledore was striding over the remains of the wall as though it was something he was quite used to, something completely normal. He continued in his stroll across the room and merely moved a sofa in the way of the killing curse that was hurled at him. He explained pleasantly,

"You see, I happen to like that particular student, and I would not be happy to see any harm befall him. Now… what are you doing in my school, Tom?"

"Your wards are lax, old man," Voldemort shot back. "I got past every one of them in less than two hours, and you didn't even notice, fool!" He sent a jet of yellow light a Dumbledore, the force of which made the sixteen year olds' hair stand on end as it whooshed past. Dumbledore flicked his wand, sending it into the floor. It left a smoking scorch mark.

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully at the accusation, still advancing on his former pupil as though he hadn't a single thought about the danger he was in. "True as that may it, it does not answer my question. What are you doing in my school, Tom?" he repeated lightly, as though asking about the weather.

"I am taking that little brat back to the cell he belongs in!" snarled Voldemort. This time he aimed a jet of crimson light at Chris, who flicked his wrist and sent it directly at Ron, who shrieked, unprepared.

"Oh, shit!" Chris exclaimed, realizing where he'd absentmindedly aimed it and quickly waved his arm. It passed not an inch from Ron's face on its new destination out the window, which instantly shattered at contact. "Sorry! Forgot you were still here!"

"N-no worries, mate," Ron stammered, looking faint. "H-happens all the t-time."

"That was smooth," Voldemort sneered sarcastically.

"As smooth as your hairline," Chris retorted.

Everyone frowned, wondering what on earth that was supposed to mean, seeing as Voldemort was kind of bald. Chris must have realized how little sense that made, because the next thing he said was, "Er… never mind… I mean… as smooth as… a baby's bottom…! Which must be infuriating since you probably couldn't even kill that baby… with its soft, smooth little butt…"

"Erm… Chris, if you have a thing for me, or just infant children in general, I don't think now is the ideal time to explore it," Harry interrupted, blushing scarlet and eyeing Voldemort nervously.

"What? No! Okay, I've got it this time. It was as smooth as--"

"CHRISTOPHER!" Every voice in the room yelled.

Chris shut up.

Voldemort actually rolled his eyes. "Well then, now that that disturbing ordeal is over… I will be taking Christopher back with me to where he shall deal with the consequences of betraying the Source and Dark Lord."

"You are wrong," Dumbledore stated, taking a seat in the arm chair across from Voldemort and lacing his fingers together, eyeing Voldemort thoughtfully over them. "Christopher has my protection, Tom. You cannot have him."

Voldemort flicked his wand, sending another killing curse at Dumbledore while Dumbledore's hands were not on his wand.

Chris flicked his wrist, sending Ron's book bag to intercept it. The book bag burst into flames, to Ron's delight, and fell to the ground as ashes. Dumbledore's expression didn't show a hint of surprise. He merely continued watching Voldemort for a reaction, which he quickly got.

Voldemort spat, "You do not even know who it is you are protecting, you senile old bat! If you even knew half of his history, you would turn him out in the cold faster than he put a knife in your back!"

"I do, in fact, know a bit of Christopher's history, Tom," said Dumbledore as though they were discussing the matter over drinks. "And I know that everyone deserves a second chance, especially when they are trying to change."

"_Change,"_ Voldemort repeated with a repulsed sneer. "You are delirious if you think Chris will change because of your gentle whisperings of _love_ and _righteousness_. The only thing that will change that stubborn, obstinate brat is brutal, repeated physical, mental, and emotional trauma!"

Chris' jaw dropped to the floor. Even Dumbledore looked surprised at the vehement proclamation.

"_Damn_, Riddle, _calm down_," Chris said with a pained expression. "One might think you didn't love me anymore, hearing that."

"I'VE TOLD YOU, I DON'T LOVE YOU, YOU INSOLENT CRETIN!"

Chris blinked owlishly. He sniffled. "You don't mean that." The way Voldemort glared begged to differ. Chris looked as if that was a blow that had hit him directly in the heart. "No, you love me! That's what you kept telling me that whole night--! Why do you deny me in public, baby? Are you ashamed of me, Tommy? Is that what it is? Baby, please--"

"IF YOU ACCUSE ME OF BEING YOUR GAY LOVER ONE MORE TIME, CHRISTOPHER, YOU WILL NOT BE SPARED NO MATTER WHAT ORDERS I'VE BEEN GIVEN! _AND STOP YOUR DESPICABLE SNIVELLING!"_

Chris stopped with a thoughtful expression. "You know, that is the exact opposite of what your father said to me last night."

"My father is dead, by my hand, you disgusting fiend," Voldemort snarled.

"Hey, some people don't draw the line at necrophilia," Chris responded with a nonchalant shrug. "And sometimes it's so good even the dead can speak… or scream, rather--"

He threw Hermione's book bag in the way of the killing curse hurtled at him, trying desperately to suppress his laughter. Hermione gave a small, horrified squeak.

"He's just trying to bait you, Riddle," a new voice said, and suddenly Wyatt was standing right beside the Dark Lord, strangely wearing a green T-shirt and blue jeans, looking like a normal blond-haired-blue-eyed eighteen year old. He rolled his eyes dismissively. "Even Chris has standards…" He paused to give Voldemort an 'inconspicuous' once-over before finishing, "…questionable as those may be, sometimes…"

The Dark Lord's face reddened in fury. He spoke his next words very clearly. "I. Am. Not. Gay. And. I. Most. _Certainly_. Am. Not. Christopher's. Lover. So. The. Both. Of. You. SHUT UP!"

Chris scowled. "Fine then, but you know what? You deny me in public and I deny you in private!"

With that, Chris stormed out of the room, and Voldemort thanked every deity he had ever heard of.

Wyatt rolled his eyes and went to fetch Chris before Dumbledore could stop him. Not a second later, the teenage Source of all Evil came back from the girls' staircase with a very depressed-looking Chris in tow.

The Source dragged him over next to Voldemort, and Chris waved sadly at his friends and headmaster. "Bye-bye," he said sadly, and the three flamed out of sight.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

There was a stunned silence left in their wake. For a moment, not even Dumbledore could move. Then, just as they were blinking themselves out of their stupors, a swirl of flames appeared at Dumbledore's eye-level, then disappeared, leaving a sheet of parchment behind.

Dumbledore instantly snatched it out of the air and read it quickly.

'Have these ingredients ready in 10... 9...' the numbers magically counted down with the seconds. Without hesitating, Dumbledore flicked his wand and summoned the five ingredients from the school supply cupboard, plus the medium sized cauldron mentioned at the bottom.

The note's counter barely reached one when flames shot up from the floor and deposited an unimpressed, lone Christopher Halliwell.

"The idiots," he muttered, and began throwing the ingredients into the cauldron, glass bottles and all. Without pausing, he took a dagger out of his sleeve and sliced open his palm. He dripped the blood over the shattered vials and ingredients and began to chant.

"_Matriarchs of the Halliwells,  
protective and true,  
blood to blood, I call on you.  
Protect the innocents within these walls,  
let none perish when evil calls.  
Blood to blood, my elder defy,  
bend to no spell that he may cry.  
For the Halliwell name and honor,  
to this spell, comply."_

A gust of unnatural wind picked up around the room as soon as Chris finished the spell, and spirals of golden light wisped through the room and moved outward to cover the entire castle. For reasons the trio and Dumbledore could not quite understand, they felt strangely at peace with the entire worrisome situation, as though they suddenly knew everything would turn out okay. It was a very odd sensation, especially in accordance with everything that had just happened.

Chris, however, only felt a small sense of relief, and that was promptly crushed when the disembodied voice of his brother floated around the room.

"Congratulations on the spell, Christopher, but you know you've only started the hunt over. You haven't changed the rules at all."

"The hunt?" Chris repeated incredulously, though his heart clenched in cold fear. "Dear God, Wyatt, I'm not an animal!"

"Animal or not, Christopher… _the game is afoot_."

This time, it was a cold wind that blew, extinguishing the candles and embers in the fireplace, plunging the Trio, Dumbledore, and Chris into darkness.

Chris slowly folded onto the floor, staring into space. …_This isn't good…_

Chris didn't look up, even when Dumbledore slowly walked over to him and sat down; his eyes were glued on his hands, which were clasped on his knees.

Dumbledore sighed to himself, then began gently, "Christopher, I am sorry. I should not have underestimated Lord Voldemort and put you in such danger. That fault is solely mine to bear, and I shall bear it the best I am able. But I can assure you, I will never make that mistake again."

He stopped, watching for Chris' reaction. It didn't come at first. Not for quite a while, actually, but he was becoming used to the disturbed teen's hesitant tendencies, and quietly waited it out.

At length, Chris took a deep breath, then let it out quickly. He looked slightly annoyed. "Alright, one: don't make promises you can't keep. That just pisses me off more. Two: don't call me Christopher. Only the Source, Voldemort, demons, general people I dislike, and my parents can call me Christopher. And three: …Everyone makes mistakes. Don't beat yourself up over it. Trust me… I'm not worth it."

"I beg to differ," Dumbledore returned softly, sensing immediately that Chris believed every word he said. This, too, had to be changed. Dumbledore considered starting a list of all the areas he needed to help Christopher… _Chris_ in. "But before we begin talking about that, which we will, I need to speak to you about this particular relationship you seem to have with the Dark Lord…"

"Please, in the name of Merlin, tell me you were just kidding about sleeping with You-Know-Who!" Ron demanded, unable to hold in his horror at the thought any longer. He actually looked as though he might faint. And, come to think of it, the whole trio did. They seemed to be a bit in over their heads with this experience.

Chris' eyes hardened. "I do not believe my sex life is any of your business, Ronald Weasley," He stated coldly, but when everyone's eyes widened in absolute horror and revulsion, he smirked. "But no, I have never slept with, nor do I ever plan to sleep with Voldemort. As the Source said, even I have standards." He paused. Then, "Well, okay, so I have to go against them every so often when seduction is the only answer, but besides those _extreme_ situations, even I have standards. …It's just fun baiting Voldemort because he's so uptight all the time, and he knows he can't kill me."

"He can't kill you?" repeated Harry faintly.

Chris shook his head, suddenly realizing what he'd let slip and seeing no way out of answering it. It was strange for Chris to think that that monster he had been teasing had killed Harry's parents… _Lily and James_… and Harry had to watch him do it. He couldn't imagine what that made Harry feel, and his empathy was exhausted from trying to avoid the dementors' reach, so he wasn't even going to check and see. But whatever he felt, Harry deserved an explanation. His life had been completely ruined by that heartless murderer, and Chris had belittled him shamelessly.

"Well… you know that normal looking blond teenager that flamed in…?" he began reluctantly, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. They were all watching him, waiting expectantly. "…That was the Source… of… all… Evil…" Insert shocked gasps from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and perplexed disbelief from Dumbledore. "…and he forbid Voldemort to kill me… unless he has a genie ready to resurrect me…"

"You mean the dead _can_ be brought back to life?" Harry blurted out in disbelief and… hope.

Chris visibly cringed. Voldemort had just come calling-- of course Harry was thinking about his parents. _This isn't going to be fun…_ He thought miserably. _Why am I telling them this, anyway?_

Chris didn't exactly know, but he knew that he had to answer Harry. "Only if the person hasn't moved on yet, Harry. Usually it takes a minute or two for the soul to talk to Death and come to terms with what happened before they take the leap into the afterlife… but after that, they're gone and no magic will bring them back…"

"…Oh." Harry's eyes dulled slightly. "Right. But--but you've done it before? Died, I mean."

"Um… yeah…" At their expectant stares, Chris shifted uncomfortably. This was a line of conversation he really didn't want to pursue, especially given the most common way in which he had been repeatedly killed… And Dumbledore 'seemed' to read his mind.

"As interesting as this topic is, I am sure you all need your rest," he cut across smoothly, clear blue eyes twinkling kindly. "In the morning, Christopher--_Chris_, I wish to have tea with you. How is 6 o'clock, sharp?" At Chris' unenthusiastic nod, he continued brightly, "In the meantime, I shall be retrieving the rest of your housemates from my deputy headmistress, if she is quite able to bear parting with them."

"At this hour? She'll be devastated," Chris smiled slightly, silently thanking Dumbledore for the change of topics. Dumbledore clearly understood and smiled back.

"Well, seeing as you've got your work cut out for you, see ya tomorrow," Chris muttered, standing and stretching.

Almost as though coming out of stupors, the three students finally caught on to what was happening. Blinking, they haphazardly also began moving towards their respective dorms, mumbling their goodnights to the headmaster.

"And Chris," Dumbledore called as Chris reached the staircase and muttered a spell to fix the damage. Chris turned around, waiting. Dumbledore smiled. "Thank you."

Chris, however, frowned. "For what?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "For not listening to me. Otherwise, I shudder to think how many might have been lost to us…"

Chris grinned and, without skipping a beat, replied, "Anytime."

Dumbledore chuckled again, shaking his head as he watched the three boys disappear into their dorm room, but the humor was soon blown away by a more somber breeze.

_The game is afoot_. This wasn't the end of evil's attempts to get Christopher… to get Christopher _back_, rather. Voldemort had said the same thing. _'Following orders for our side, …__**again**__.'_  
_'If you even knew half of his history, you would turn him out in the cold faster than he put a knife in your back…'_

Dumbledore sighed softly as he got to his feet and repaired the common room wall with a flick of his wand. Apparently, Chris had even more history on the Other side of the war than just the infamous _Amiscuss_ _Veva_ strategy… Which meant he had probably killed more than just the people in that one attack… which meant he had probably done worse things than killing, as well…

So… what had he done? _And_, Dumbledore wondered for the hundredth time, _how can I help him stay on our side? How can I help him-- at all?_

With yet another sigh, Dumbledore strode out of the Gryffindor common room to fetch his wayward students, and make preparations for new wards on the school. The Halliwells were protecting them, now, he understood, but he couldn't leave the job to them alone. Everyone needed back up sooner or later. Even Halliwells.

Then it hit him. In the middle of the corridor. The pieces righted themselves before his very eyes. -- '_Dear God, Wyatt, I'm not an animal!'_-- _Wyatt_. The Source's name was _Wyatt_. Chris was not the only male of the Halliwell line, Dumbledore suddenly very clearly recalled, and all the color slipped from his aged face… _No…_

Christopher's older brother was _Wyatt Matthew Halliwell_.

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**A/N: To address a few things: THAT WAS NOT THE ULTIMATE CHRIS-WYATT CONFRONTATION!!! Just a little teaser :). Anyways, I don't know about pairings, yet. A hint of Ron/Hermione because Rowling's been hinting about it since book 3, but I'm not su**r**e about Chris. If you have sugguestions, let me know :). And if slash seriously disturbs you, let me know, too, because I'm considering it.**

**Review, please!**


	12. Of Christopher

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, do-da, do-da, I don't own Charmed either, oh da do-da day!**

**A/N: NO CHRIS PAIRINGS! Yeah, I kinda agree with most of you. This story line won't easily allow for romance, and I'm not really good at writing it, either. What was I thinking? Gah. (PS, and if it had been slash, it would have been Snape/Chris because that would have just been freaking interesting and complicated- AKA: fun writing. But nah, now that I think about it, I can't see Chris being happy with another guy, anyway)  
…On with the Story!**

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**Chapter 12: Of "Christopher"**

Chris sat on the windowsill in the Gryffindor tower, staring out into space as his roommates slept (or pretended to sleep) peacefully.

_The game is afoot. _…The words echoed in Chris' mind over and over again. All he could think was that it wasn't over. Not by a long shot. It would start out subtle. Wyatt would send lower level demons to test the boundaries of the school. Someone, most likely a Death Eater's child, would be in charge of watching Chris' every move, picking out when and where they'd be able to set a trap. Then there would be traps, when he was known to be alone… And when that failed, Wyatt would screw 'subtle' and start getting messy. Traps would be around every corner... The people he was known to hang out with would be targeted, as well… Then the _real_ threats would come… Upper level demons and Death Eaters with a single mission-- to capture him, no matter the cost to his surroundings. They might even form an all-out attack on the school, if Wyatt figured out a way to get through the Halliwell protected boundaries. …Wyatt wasn't going to stop until he got his brother back; Chris already knew that much.

The teen sighed quietly. _Great_. He had brought his and his brother's war to a school full of happy, innocent, _unbroken_ children, and Dumbledore _still_ wouldn't let him leave… This was getting ridiculous.

"What's it feel like to die?" The quiet question broke Chris out of his dismal thoughts.

Harry was lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. He didn't even glance at Chris as he voiced his soft query.

Chris blinked before shifting his gaze back out the window. He still felt like he owed Harry some sort of apology for belittling the monster that had killed his parents, but he had never been comfortable with apologies. He'd rather just make up for it by being cooperative, for once in his life. He had a feeling Harry understood his motives when he answered haltingly, without sarcasm, "It's… sort of like… passing out suddenly. Except there's this… _whooshing_ feeling… I don't know how else to describe it… and then you're awake again, looking at your body."

"So, it's not painful?" Still, Harry stared at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head.

Chris rearranged himself on the windowsill, uncomfortable, but he honestly couldn't hold the windowsill accountable for it. "Well, the actual _dying_ isn't…" he answered carefully, but didn't elaborate.

"Have you ever been killed by the _Avada Kedavra_?"

"…Yeah…" Chris conceded, hesitant. He knew what Harry was getting at. "It's very, very fast, Harry. …Your parents didn't suffer."

"What's it like?"

Chris barely stopped himself from repeating sardonically, _very, very fast_. He actually considered the question. "I… don't know how else to describe it besides 'fast', really," he finally began. "I mean… maybe like _reverse_ jumping off a building? Like hitting the ground from eighty stories and _then_ feeling the whooshing sensation…? I dunno. It only happened once and it _was_… really fast."

"Hitting the ground from eighty stories doesn't sound painless."

"It only lasts a split second," Chris reminded him softly.

"Oh," Harry murmured, and blinked once. After staring at the ceiling for another moment, he finally glanced over at Chris, then demanded quietly, "Don't you _ever_ sleep?"

Chris gave him a brief wry look before turning his attention to the lake in the distance. "If I didn't, I wouldn't be alive today, would I?"

"Nightmares?" Harry surmised, disregarding the slight bite in Chris' tone.

Chris didn't answer, and he knew Harry assumed, correctly, that the answer was yes.

"You know, dreams are how our subconscious work through our issues in life," Harry stated softly, sounding like he was repeating something once told to him. He was gazing at the ceiling again. "If you don't ever sleep, it'll take a lot longer for you to come to terms with whatever it is that's giving you nightmares. Trust me on this one."

Chris smirked slightly. "That's what the sandman told my mother and aunts."

"Sandman, as in 'Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream,'?" Harry asked, frowning. "You mean he's real?"

"Yup."

"Huh," Harry muttered, thoughtful. After another moment, he rolled onto his side and let his eyelids droop shut. Already half-asleep, he finished softly, "…Maybe you should take his advice."

Chris only blinked as Harry began to drift off. A few seconds later, the youngest Halliwell was staring out the window again, now wondering about his whitelighter's son's history.

About two hours later, it was six o'clock, sharp, and Chris dragged himself from the addictive view from the windowsill and walked to Dumbledore's office, late.

…

The first thing that caught Chris' eye was the man behind the desk, and how entirely melancholy he looked, staring at his fingers laced upon his desk, lost in thought.

"You haven't slept, either, I see," was all he said as he took a seat in front of the desk. He watched Dumbledore, a guarded expression hiding his reluctant concern and curiosity. He noticed a few of the 'sleeping' portraits squint inconspicuously at him before returning to their slumbers.

Dumbledore didn't look up just yet, but replied, "There is a lot to think about, is there not?"

It was then that Chris understood. Next to Dumbledore's desk, on a side table, several books lay open; a few titles that stood out read, _A Charmed Legacy: Children of the Charmed Sisters_, and _The Halliwell Brothers: A Dynamic Duo_, and not to mention, _Collected Interviews: Edition: Halliwells_.

"I was wondering when you would figure it out," Chris admitted softly, watching the old man for signs of life.

Dumbledore smiled faintly, but there was no amused twinkle in his eyes. "I should have known it from the start," he began gently. "Then I might have better understood your impassioned involvement in the war. …I might have better understood many things."

Chris remained silent, waiting for Dumbledore to get to whatever point he was aiming for.

Dumbledore slowly sat up straighter, seemingly getting a hold of himself, again. He blinked and adjusted himself in his chair, then considered Chris for a moment. With a renewed life, he asked, sounding fairly curious. "That is why you were on the other side-- your brother's side-- at the start of the war? Family allegiances?"

"And you figured out I was evil, too," Chris concluded unenthusiastically, sitting back in his chair and staring at the floor, vaguely aware of the color slowly sliding from his countenance. He could already feel the old man's disappointment and… circumspection. Dumbledore clearly had questions, and Chris couldn't see himself getting out of answering these so easily. Why hadn't he just ignored this appointment, again?

"Chris… why did you change sides?" Dumbledore asked, still merely curious.

Chris couldn't say he was surprised this was the first question. But that didn't make trying to answer any easier. "I… It's… it's complicated," he managed after a moment, studying his hands with interest. They were laced in his lap. Faintly calloused. …Dumbledore was still waiting. With a shaky sigh, Chris confided the main point, "I came to the conclusion that, since I was trying to kill myself-- sometimes succeeding-- every other week, the lifestyle of a cold-blooded murderer just wasn't for me."

"Guilt?" Dumbledore surmised.

"Sometimes." His fingernails were a bit on the long side. Longish. He had gotten out of the habit of chewing them.

Dumbledore smiled wryly. "Not always?"

"…Not _always_. But sometimes." Wyatt had said chewing fingernails was a sign of anxiety. Anxiety was uncertainty. Uncertainty was weakness.

"Why were you alright with some Dark deeds and not others?"

"I wasn't _alright_ with actually _using_ _any_thing Dark. I just didn't _care_, mostly. …And, part of the time, I was on some little things called '_drugs_'… which I am trying to quit, by the way." Because drugs were also a weakness.

"I'm glad to hear that," responded Dumbledore with an amused smile. "And if you are ever in need of a distraction from the addiction, I sleep as little as you do, and you know where to find me."

Chris smirked, finally glancing up from his hands. "I'll bear that in mind."

"So, are you prepared to tell me what gave you enough guilt that you would try to end your own life to escape it?"

"Ha-ha-_hell_ no," Chris returned sardonically, slightly amused at the straightforwardness.

Dumbledore smiled wryly, again. "Well, if you ever need a listening ear, I sleep as little as you do… and you know where to find me."

Chris just gave him a look, expressing his doubts about the likeliness of that happening.

Dumbledore sighed. "So, how many others know Lord Wyatt is your brother?"

Chris looked away. "Most demons and Death Eaters. Nobody on this side, besides you, though. People here don't know the Source's last name… and people at the Resistance don't know my last name."

"Sooner or later, Chris…"

"They'll meet and everything will be screwed. I know. No need reminding me."

"Why are you trying to hide it?" Dumbledore asked, watching Chris closely.

"Why am I-- why--? _What_?" Chris demanded, giving Dumbledore a look that could have made even the wisest man question his sanity. _"I am the brother of the Source of All Evil!"_-- The sleeping portraits gasped, no longer feigning sleep but listening alertly, yet Dumbledore didn't so much as blink-- "Why would I _want_ people to know that? So they could treat me like a murderer and lock me up so that I'm no more use to _anyone_? So they could give me right back to my brother? So they'd think I was just a spy and not let me do anything important? _Why _would I tell them something like that?"

"They might understand, Christopher. You needn't always underestimate your comrades."

"_Christopher." _Chris repeated scathingly, shaking his head and giving the window a filthy look. He didn't look back at Dumbledore, who sighed and amended,

"My apologies, _Chris_. I am merely saying, maybe they would be sympathetic--"

Chris interrupted his monologue in the making by standing up, rolling his eyes. "Forget it," he muttered, walking over to the door and feeling somehow even more disappointed than ever. Maybe-- _it was possible_-- Chris had actually started to like the manipulative old bat. But the bat just didn't understand. He was too… optimistic. Chris hated it. He twisted the doorknob, but it didn't budge. His eyes narrowed. "Let me out."

"I'm afraid we still have matters to discuss."

Chris closed his eyes, suppressing the urge to kick the damn door down, physically; suppressing the stinging sensation in his eyes. Neither would change anything. Feeling as though the weight of the world was crashing down on his shoulders, Chris took a shuddering breath and pressed his forehead against the door, struggling furiously against the prickling tears gathering behind his closed lids.

"Christopher…"

"_Lord Christopher,"_ Chris murmured, not moving at all, save his lips to speak, "Lord Wyatt, and Lord Voldemort. The three… the three Dark Lords who brought the Underworld above ground… and pushed every force of Light into the corners, their backs against the wall. Mass murderers. Torturers. Sadists. That is what the world knows Christopher and Wyatt Halliwell as. That is why I can't tell anyone who I am. …That is why you cannot call me Christopher."

Finally, he turned, leaning his back against the door, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't meet the old man's eyes, even though he felt the clear blue spheres trying to look into his. He just couldn't.

"I am sorry," Dumbledore said at last. "But it is clear you are no longer that person. You never should have been. You are too young to have to live with that kind of weight on your shoulders."

"Maybe so," Chris remarked softly. "But it happened, and I've just got to deal with whatever consequences I earned. It's my problem, not yours, not your school's, so you really need to just get rid of me. Let me go."

Dumbledore smiled. "We aren't going to have this conversation again, Chris. You _aren't_ leaving. Now, let's have tea. I noticed you did not drink much of the Chamomile, last night. How do you like raspberry?"

Chris stared at him for a moment. Tea? They had just talked about how Chris had murdered and tortured, and now Dumbledore wanted to have tea?

He sighed. "Coffee, if you please."

Dumbledore conjured the beverages and Chris sat back down, resigned. He thanked Dumbledore quietly when he was handed the black coffee and just inhaled the scent for a moment. That alone was rejuvenating.

"So, when did your guilt drive you to join the Resistance against Wyatt?" Dumbledore asked lightly, sipping his steaming cup of raspberry and lemon tea.

"Actually, I've been going between Wyatt and the Resistance off and on since the war started about a year ago," Chris replied, sipping his own steaming cuppa. "At first, before the war, I was dead against his views, and I tried to talk him out of open warfare. Then he manipulated me into helping him. After I'd help him, I would see the horrors of what I'd done, then I'd go to the Resistance. He would capture me, manipulate me again, and the cycle would go over and over and over. But I've been helping the Resistance for about four months straight, now."

"So whose side are you really on?" Dumbledore asked curiously, watching Chris over the rim of his cup.

"…I'm with the Resistance, mostly, I guess," Chris answered after a length. "I mean… I'm not going to target my _brother_, of course, so I refuse to work with them in _that_ area… but I'll help any innocent that needs it."

"So what would you do if the Resistance actually tried to kill Wyatt?"

"I'd stop them. Duh."

"So, you'd let him continue waging this war, unchecked, because you won't see him defeated?"

"…" Chris sipped his coffee.

Dumbledore set his cup down and laced his fingers. "I see."

"You would have me murder my own brother?" Chris asked tonelessly, eyebrows slightly raised.

Dumbledore gave him a look square in the eyes and said simply, "I want you to save lives."

Chris held his gaze for a moment before breaking it off, murmuring. "I'm trying."

Dumbledore sat back in his chair, suddenly looking thoroughly pleased. "Then that's all I can ask."

Chris rolled his eyes and took another sip of his coffee. There was more Dumbledore was going to bring up. He could feel it.

"So, how was the Occlumency lesson?"

And there it was. "Harry's pretty good," Chris responded, then remembered his issues with this subject. "He actually rebounded into my memories, which brings me to the point that _you_ should teach him."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, clearly hiding a smirk. "Indeed? Why is that?"

"I can't hold my mental barriers up too high, or he'll hit them like a bug on a windshield, and if I keep them too low, he'll see things that he really doesn't need or want to see," said Chris, swirling the coffee absentmindedly. "You'd be able to judge the necessary strength better."

"I have other things I need to teach Harry during our time together," replied Dumbledore, smiling, eyes twinkling.

"I'm serious, man. I don't want to hurt him."

"Then even the score-- keep your defenses low and let him invade _your_ privacy. You were severely concerned about invading _his_ when you finally agreed to instruct him." His eyes were twinkling maddeningly.

Chris glared coldly. He stopped swirling the coffee.

Dumbledore beamed pleasantly. "More coffee?"

Chris didn't know if he wanted to growl at the old man or just roll his eyes. Then, out of nowhere, a small, three-dimensional movie-like scene appeared between the headmaster and student. It showed a younger-ish Chris and Wyatt watching blackened, scorched, unrecognizable ground burn. The movie-Chris said something to Wyatt, but the actual Chris spoke over him, confused.

"Am I doing this or are you?"

"It is all you, my dear boy. New power, perhaps?" Dumbledore offered, smiling pleasantly and watching the memory play out.

Chris scowled at him and flicked his fingers at the moving image, trying to find the movement that would make it stop. Nothing happened. He flicked his wrist at it. Nothing. He swiped the air. Nothing. He tried more hand and arm movements.

Memory Wyatt looked down at Memory Chris, amused. "We wipe an entire species out of existence, and all you've got to say is, 'I need more coffee'?" - The Memory Chris just gave him a dirty look, then the memory changed.

Memories Chris and Wyatt were discussing an invasion of some sort when Chris reached blindly beside him for his mug of coffee, never taking his eyes off the huge map in front of them. Wyatt wrinkled his nose at action and stated distastefully, "I still don't see how you can drink that stuff black."  
Memory Chris gave him a Look. "I've been drinking this for half a decade and _now_ you have a problem with it?" He rolled his eyes at Wyatt's (improving) attempt at a Look and continued, "So, Trolls seem like the type to focus the strength of their defenses in the South… I can't see them as the North or East people. Possibly West, but South is just…"

"Why is it not leaving?" Chris demanded, irritated and worried about how much these memory projections would reveal. He was waving his hands randomly, now.

"Are a witch's powers not tied to his or her emotions?" queried Dumbledore, a hinting twinkle in his eyes.

Chris actually blushed. He had forgotten the number one rule of Wiccan magic. He honestly wouldn't have been surprised if one (or both) of his aunts came back from the grave just to smack him upside the head for that.

Still blushing, he tried to recall what he had been feeling the moment the memories began projecting. Annoyance, mostly. And exasperation. So what movement had he made to trigger it? Taking into account the emotions involved and his personality, he had probably narrowed his eyes or something.

Concentrating on annoyance and exasperation, Chris glared at the memory projection, and it abruptly snapped out of existence. He frowned unhappily. "Well. That's not exactly the power I was hoping to get next."

Dumbledore looked interested. "How are the powers you get determined?"

Chris shrugged. "The Powers That Be assign them, probably according to their Grand Design or something. I dunno. I just think they have a whacked-up sense of humor."

Dumbledore smiled, clear blue eyes _still_ twinkling. "Or maybe they are trying to help you."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

As the day wore on, Chris discovered how little the rest of the school knew of last night's events. The Gryffindors had all been obliviated (Chris had a sneaking suspicion Dumbledore was somehow involved in that), and the other houses were none the wiser. Snape was in a rather foul mood and, even though he completely ignored Chris, he took points off Gryffindors every five minutes for the littlest things. Professors Sprout and McGonagall, however, awarded more points than usual for answering questions correctly and succeeding in new spells. Flitwick even awarded Harry fifty points for getting a Permanent Sticking Charm right. Chris also had a sneaking suspicion that Slughorn hadn't been told of last night's happenings, because the fat old man didn't rant on forever about the glory that was Chris Halliwell and the Charmed Ones. Let's just say Chris was indescribably grateful.

So, by the end of the day, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Chris were still in pretty decent shape when Harry said, "So, how often are we going to have Occlumency lessons? Hint hint."

Chris raised an eyebrow, amused. "Ooo, subtle, Harry."

"I thought so."

"The 'hint hint' part especially threw me off, but I figured out the real meaning behind your little word games, Potter. You can't fool _me_."

"Well, darn. So I guess you _also_ knew I was practicing those sticking charms on that windowsill before you came in, and so you just _voluntarily_ sat on it."

"…"

"…Er… Chris?"

Harry quickly ducked below the pillow telekinetically thrown at his head. He had barely sat up again, however, before the entire arm chair came at him next. With wild squeals and shrieks and laughter, the trio darted to their respective staircases, dodging various room fixtures and furniture that came hurtling at them on their ways.

"So, I'm guessing that's a no to the Occlumency lesson?" Harry called down to the common room from the sixth year boys' dorm, his face red from laughing. He hastily slammed the door shut and immediately heard a lamp shatter against it.

That was it. He and Ron collapsed on the floor, howling with laughter.

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A/N: ...Does anyone want to beta this? And even if you don't, please review!**


	13. Of Nightmares

**Disclaimer:**** I own neither Harry Potter nor Charmed.**

**A/N: Sorry the paragraphs aren't all phrased correctly. A lot of the formatting got messed up when I was trying to upload this document for some reason.  
****Anyways, everyone thank Stoneage Woman for beta reading this chapter! She had a lot of wonderful suggestions and deserves a nice round of applause!**

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The next night, Chris could be found staring down at his bed as his dorm mates slumbered peacefully before him. It had been five days since he'd slept, and no amount of caffeine would be able to keep him awake any longer. He would have to face his nightmares tonight, or he would start deteriorating, physically and mentally, from lack of sleep. That had happened quite a few times before, and it was no joy to recover from; Chris would be the first to admit it.

He sighed and began chanting quiet spells to contain any magic from his bed _to _his bed. As Dumbledore had pointed out the day before yesterday, a witch's magic was tied to his or her emotions, and Chris' nightmares were… _very_ emotional. He would probably destroy the Gryffindor tower in his sleep if he didn't take precautions.

With another soft sigh, Chris crawled underneath the covers and snuggled far into the soft warmness. The silence barrier he had added around his space blocked out the deep, rhythmic breathing of Harry, Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville, so Chris found this utter silence completely unfamiliar… but it was necessary. There was no telling what he would say-- or yell-- in his sleep.

With slowing thoughts, the exhaustion of being conscious for five days straight pulled him under the tides of sleep with a vengeance.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry woke slowly to the sensation of being shaken awake… except, instead of someone shaking his shoulder, someone was shaking the room.

Frowning in confusion and drowsiness, Harry sluggishly sat up, looking around at the still dark room. It couldn't be more than four in the morning, he noted with furthered confusion, scanning the room for the source of the disturbance. Every bed in the dorm was vibrating on the ground, yet he seemed to be the only one awake because of it.

_The only one awake._ _Where was Chris?_

Harry swung his head around to Chris' bed to find it literally on fire, shaking like a leaf in a storm. The curtains were closed, but it looked as though Chris was thrashing violently, albeit silently, behind them.

Horrified, Harry scrambled out of bed and grabbed his wand and glasses. He shot a fire-extinguishing spell at the roaring, silent flames, but it ricocheted off some kind of invisible shield before it even reached the fire. Now bewildered, Harry tried a few more spells, but everything reflected off the barrier.

As a last ditch effort, Harry yelled, "Chris! CHRIS!" The curtains didn't open. A noise wasn't heard from inside. The fire continued roaring silently, the bed continued shaking, and the trapped teen continued thrashing.

Without wasting another second, Harry tore off out of the room and down the staircase. He had barely gotten through the portrait hole, though, when the person he was running to get swept around the corner and came straight to him.

"Lead the way, Harry."

Seconds later, Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore strode into the shuddering dormitory, making their way past the stirring, befuddled students and straight to Chris, whose bed was still aflame and quaking.

Dumbledore raised his wand and, after an elaborate sweeping motion, the invisible shield glowed faintly then vanished with a soft _pop_. Harry and Dumbledore immediately heard the deadly roaring of the fire and the hoarse cries of the writhing, _sleeping_ teen, who appeared unharmed, though the fire had consumed almost everything around him. The barrier had even been blocking sound.

By now, Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean were awake, practically thrown out of their beds by the suddenly unrestrained, lurching ground, and were asking groggily, "wuss goin' on?"

Dumbledore ignored them all and began working on extinguishing the fire, which seemed to be resistant to everything he tried. It was, however, very real fire; they could tell from the waves of pure heat it was emitting. And, through everything, Chris continued to sleep, trapped in the phantom claws of his nightmare.

Suddenly, Dumbledore lowered his wand, eyes focused on the twisting, anguished teen. He raised his wand and muttered softly, but firmly, _"Ennervate."_

Behind the whipping flames and tattered, burning curtains, Christopher's vivid green eyes snapped open, but he immediately squeezed them shut again and pulled his knees to his chest, palms pressed tightly against his temples. He pushed back against the wall as far as he could, almost hyperventilating, not the least concerned that the fire was still raging and the whole tower shaking madly because of him. If anything, the intensity of the destructive forces _increased_. Harry and the other sixth years had to grab a hold of the trembling beds just so they wouldn't be thrown off their feet.

Then, out of nowhere, three-dimensional, intangible images appeared around the room, flickering in and out of existence, the accompanying sound wavering like a badly-tuned radio.

Harry, Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus stared in amazement at the scene that flickered before them, each grabbing hold of a nearby fixture so they weren't thrown off their feet. Dumbledore chanted softly in a strange language, weaving his wand in a complex pattern. Harry saw with amazement that it was taking nearly all his energy to keep the angrily roaring fire from spreading. The old wizard barely registered Chris' new power as it spluttered to life, and had no attention to spare to stop it for Chris, as the boy seemed to be completely lost to the world of the waking.

_A slightly younger Chris threw out his hand at a Greek-like giant, face screwed up in the effort of stopping the lightning bolt it had thrown at a group of small, sobbing children. He redirected it at another Greek giant that was in the process of beating a screaming cluster of old women to death with a spiked club. The first Titan turned her merciless gray eyes onto Chris as the second growled and kept swinging his crude mace at anyone passing by, successfully beheading three teenagers with a single fell swoop. Their heads flew into the air with a widespread spurt of warm crimson, expressions permanently those of shock and fear. Their bodies stood a full five seconds before folding to the ground, feet away from their respective skulls._

Neville staggered across the violently shaking room to the bathroom, his round face splotched green and white. Harry heard the unmistakable sound of him being sick, and felt like he might join Neville any moment. The pure gore that assaulted their senses was unbelievable.

_All across the square-mile tract of land, people were screaming, running, sobbing, and dying. Huge, Greek-like giants-- Titans-- shot lightning bolts and swung massive spiked clubs at anyone they saw, slaughtering the men, women, and children trapped in the desolate, burning tract of land with them. Dozens of bloodied corpses littered the ground, and dozens more were being massacred by the second. Chris seemed to be the only one trying to fight the Titans, and he was already drenched in sweat, already awash with strangers' lifeblood. The exhausted, defiant teen redirected lightning bolts and threw scarlet shields around innocents left and right. The horror and anguish of not being able to save everyone, of having to watch innocents being butchered barbarically, shone with agonizing clearness in his every feature and added a sort of distressed franticness to his every move. He was running himself ragged trying to save all five hundred innocents from the twelve, brutal Titans, and he wasn't stopping. He wasn't even hesitating. And he was failing miserably._

  
_"They've trapped us in!" a girl with waist-length blue-black hair and indigo blue eyes screamed across the length of a football field to Chris as she ripped off a piece of her already-shredded jacket and hurriedly wrapped it tightly around a young man's head wound to stop the profuse bleeding. The same horror and distress burned in her wide eyes as she moved hastily to the next wounded stranger. "Reinforcements can't get in! It's all you, Chris!"_

The image flickered fiercely now, and the next thing the Gryffindors saw was a very young Chris pleading with a girl that looked almost exactly like him, except with bright blue eyes. Both looked almost skeletal, and they had dark bags under their prematurely aged eyes that looked like bruises. Both of them were absolutely _covered_ with ugly, vicious-looking bruises of various shapes and sizes. The boys watching almost didn't recognize their new classmate at such an age, and in such a state.

_A familiar scarlet shield stood between the brother and sister, but from their positions, it looked as though __**Chris**__ was the one trying to get through it to the girl. And it looked like they had been arguing for quite a while.  
"Jessie, __**please**__," the little boy begged, tears streaming openly down his grimy cheeks, down an already washed thin trail of clean skin. "Put the poison __**down**__, sis. I __**swear**__, it doesn't have to end like this. __**I swear**__." His bloodshot, tearful, haunted eyes bore into hers, pleading desperately in a way beyond words. "Please don't do this," he whispered almost inaudibly.  
The girl, Chris' sister-- twin-- _Jessie_, shook her head, tears coursing down her own cheeks, vivid blue eyes darkened with internal anguish and a sorrow that brought tears even to Harry's eyes.  
"I'm sorry, C-Chris," she croaked quietly, meekly. A sob escaped and shook her entire body. "I'm n-not as strong as y-you," she squeaked and another sob seized her. She shook insistently, pathetically as sobs racked her body. "I t-told you… I just c-can't take this any m-more. I'm __**sorry**__."_

_And, with that final, heartfelt apology, the little girl downed the vial clutched in her hand. Only then did the force shield collapse under Chris' terrified pounding, his scream so frightened it made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand on end and goose bumps wash over his skin._

"Bloody hell," Ron breathed, ashen faced and shocked. Dean grunted quietly in agreement, but Harry and Seamus just stared, too shocked to acknowledge his sentiment. _Chris' twin sister had committed suicide._

As the girl's body went limp and arched backwards into the river behind, the image began flickering madly, again. They had time to see Chris break through the shield and dive into the river after Jessie before the scene shuddered out of existence completely. It was replaced with another.

The boys watched, now, merely rooted to the spot. They didn't notice Dumbledore making advances against Chris' fire and telekinesis. The temperature in the room was cooling considerably, though new flames continued to whip through the air aggressively. Gradually, the quaking began to diminish until they no longer needed to hold on to something to keep their balance. But they didn't notice, they were so absorbed in the memories.

_Chris was younger, maybe only a few months, and chained to a wall in a torch lit room. All around him, bodies were chained, but they were clearly dead, and judging from the inch-deep pool of blood that covered the entire floor and their extensive, gruesome wounds, they had been tortured to death, maybe hours long each. Chris was the only one alive, and physically unharmed. Mentally, however, was a whole different matter.  
__**"Kill me!" **__He screamed at the blond haired, blue-eyed Source, his voice breaking passionately as tears flooded down his cheeks. His very essence reeked of absolute devastation. He jerked violently against the chains binding him to the wall. __**"You can't just leave me here like this, Wyatt! **__Don't you dare leave me like this! __**KILL ME!"**_

_The Source leaned back against the door, expression unmoved. If anything, he looked amused. "I'm not going to kill you, Christopher," he drawled almost lazily. "Now, this is your last chance. Tell me where the city is."_

_  
"Why the fuck would I tell you that, now?" Chris demanded, his cracking voice thick with emotion. Thick with grief. "What are you going to do to persuade me __**now**__, Wyatt? Huh? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?" he screamed, then fell back against the wall, sobbing brokenly, the chains the only thing keeping him from sinking to the ground in a fetal position.  
"I can leave you here," Wyatt responded evenly, shrugging. "Leave you alone with the corpses of your beloved family. Leave you with the knowledge that you killed every last one of them. Let you slowly starve to death alongside them, then resurrect you and leave you in this room all over again until you break. It'd be easy enough for me… Time consuming, maybe, but what the hell? I'd get what I want, in the end." He looked directly into Chris' widening, horror-filling eyes, and finished softly, "I always do, Christopher."  
Chris gave him a look as though really seeing him for the first time, and behind the clear anguish, a look of horror and dread was beginning to grow. He stared, speechless, leaning limply against the wall.  
"So, what's it going to be, Christopher? Are you going to tell me now… or later?"  
Chris just shook his head mutely, incapable of speech.  
Wyatt sighed, frustrated. "Christopher, stop being an idiot!" he snapped. "There is no one left to save you! The only people that would have __**are in this room**__, and they don't exactly look like they're going to conduct a rescue mission anytime soon, do they?__Just tell me where the damn city is and let's be done with this!"_

As the sixth years witnessed the rest of the memory play out-- Chris' anguished but flat out refusal to tell-- Dumbledore erected a shield around himself and walked straight through the flames separating the hyperventilating Chris from them.

Deactivating the shield once he was through, Dumbledore slowly knelt down beside the sixteen year old's bed, assessing his state. Chris' eyes were squeezed shut tightly, his shaking hands covering his face in an almost frightened manner. His knees were drawn up to his chest and his back was pressed firmly against the wall behind him, as if he wished to disappear through it. His entire body was tense and shaking, and his breathing was completely erratic.

"Chris," Dumbledore called softly, gazing hard at the teen, willing him to open his eyes and meet his gaze. "Chris, my boy, it's alright. It was just a dream. You're safe, now, Chris. _You're safe."_

No reaction, save that Chris tensed even more and pressed even harder against the wall.

_Chris was eleven or twelve and arguing with a man with dark blond hair. It was hard to tell what they were arguing about, but suddenly, the man raised a hand and struck Chris across the face so hard the boy crashed to the floor. Chris made a wry, unenthusiastic face, as though this wasn't a surprise, and wiped the blood from his lip. No more than a half second later, however, the man grabbed him by the shoulder and ripped him to his feet before forcefully throwing him backwards into a chair. Chris gripped the arms of the chair tightly as it was rocked back onto two legs by the vigor of the throw. He regarded the man cautiously, holding his tongue, now.  
__The man gave the kid a disgusted look, appearing to want to hit him again, but he settled for snarling, "So that's it? You've got nothing to say for yourself? Because I've got to tell you, an apology might work to your advantage, right now, Christopher."  
A brief look of confusion and helplessness flashed across the boy's face before it was covered with a blank mask. "I'm… I'm sorry I can't… can't be better?" he tried feebly.  
He must have known it was a feeble attempt, too, because he didn't looked surprised when the apology was rewarded with an eye-roll and another bruise across the face.  
"I'm not even asking for you to be 'better'!" the man snapped, angry and irritated as he walked to the door and opened it. "I would settle for you just… disappearing!"  
He slammed the door behind him, leaving a quietly wounded Chris to stare after him._

"Chris, please look at me," Dumbledore continued gently, then he made the mistake of touching Chris' shoulder. Chris flinched so violently at the contact that he actually fell off the bed, then threw himself into the corner between the bed and the wall.

Dumbledore's clear blue eyes saddened considerably as he looked down at the shaking, frightened, unresponsive teen that was currently trying to make himself as small as possible. There was no way Dumbledore was going to get through to him when he was in this condition. They just didn't know each other well enough.

"Harry," he called quietly over Chris' haywire memory power. Wide green, bespectacled eyes shot up to meet his, tearing themselves away from the newest horrible memory. It seemed to Dumbledore that Harry was honestly distressed by these revelations. He smiled wryly, sympathetic. "Please go to Professor Snape's office and ask him for a vial of dreamless sleep potion. If he is not there, just look in his cabinets under 'D'. He is wonderfully organized. Misters Longbottom, Thomas, Finnegan, Weasley, if you would so kindly wait in the common room while this is sorted out… And when Professor McGonagall comes, could you inform her I have the situation under control? Thank you, all."

The students, getting the point, hurried from the gently shaking room, all looking quite disturbed, and Neville and Ron both quite green. Dumbledore turned back to Chris when the door clicked shut and just watched him for a moment. The departure of the others seemed to have calmed him… somewhat. He was still pressed tightly in the corner, hugging his knees, but his eyes were open and disturbingly distant. He was lost inside his own mind.

Dumbledore slowly, very slowly as to not alarm the boy, got up and moved to sit in front of him, respecting his personal space. Chris tensed again, but didn't exactly clam up, so Dumbledore took it as a sign that he was open to talking to. "It's just us, now, Chris," he murmured, watching him carefully with soft eyes. Chris still didn't acknowledge him. "Nothing's going to happen. It's alright. Just breathe, my boy. Just breathe."

Though Chris didn't start taking deep breaths, he seemed to relax… the tiniest bit. That was something. Dumbledore continued speaking quietly, just about where he was and that he was safe. That everything was fine. And slowly, so slowly, Chris began to unfurl until he was just sitting, cross-legged, and staring into space. He wasn't alright, not by a long shot, but he wasn't afraid of Dumbledore's intentions anymore, and that was something the headmaster was very grateful for.

Sensing that Chris just needed some time and space, Dumbledore made himself comfortable on the carpeted floor and kept his gaze soft as he observed Christopher. Behind him, the images still flickered and wavered, but Dumbledore tried not to listen. He didn't want to take advantage of Chris to get information when he was in such a state. It wasn't right.

Minutes passed with no change. Then more minutes. It had to have been half an hour before Harry finally showed up with the Dreamless Sleep Potion, looking for all the world like he'd run the entire way. Snape had probably just given him a hard time about it.

"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore said kindly with genuine relief in his tone. Harry just nodded and took a seat on his bed, behind them both, not even asking if he should join his dorm mates downstairs, and Dumbledore smiled to himself. Harry cared.

The smile slowly slid from his face, though, as he turned back to Chris. The boy seemed, for the most part, intact, now. He looked weary beyond belief, and extraordinarily downcast, but he was aware, all the same. And very, very reluctantly, Chris slowly met Dumbledore's gaze.

"Um… Sorry… sorry I… well… destroyed the room and…um… woke everyone up," he stated hesitantly, looking to the floor again. He was intact, yes, but something was still bothering him. A lot.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Chris," said Dumbledore with a gentle smile. "Although, it would be _very_ helpful if you could get rid of the fire, as I cannot seem to do much to it."

Chris looked up briefly, confused, but then noticed the cooled flames dancing all around them. He extinguished them with a slight flick of his wrist, but groaned, visibly deflating when he noticed the memory projection still playing. He let himself fold over, unenthusiastic. His head in his lap, he mumbled at Dumbledore to "just get rid of it".

Dumbledore smiled serenely. "You need to learn control over this power, Chris. You never shall if I do it for you. Now, just concentrate on the necessary emotions… and go for it."

Groaning again, Chris paused, then waved his hand sporadically in the general direction of the projection, not even looking up. Nothing happened.

Harry would have laughed at the pathetic attempt, had it not been for the particular memory playing.

_Chris was young, six at the most, and looked badly beaten. His clothes were torn, and bloody gashes and bruises could be seen on every visible bit of flesh. Dirt and soot stained his arms and face, and his nose and lips were chapped and bleeding badly. The young boy appeared to be in some sort of cave, and an ugly, dirty, brutish-looking man was towering above him, leering nastily.  
_"_What's the best way to anger the Charmed Ones, he asked me," the man sneered, bending down and getting very, very close to the abused little boy, who pressed himself as far back against the wall as he could and regarded the evil man with frightened, glittering eyes. The man snorted derisively at his obvious fear. "Why… to hurt their young, of course," the man finished, jeering.  
__He leapt out to grab the boy, who had tried to run, and wrestled the thrashing kid to the ground, where he lay flat on top of him, that wicked amusement becoming more and more pronounced; more and more disturbing._

"How the fuck am I supposed to feel annoyed and exasperated when I'm being forced to remember all _this_ _shit?" _Chris demanded angrily, his haunted eyes the only thing betraying his real feelings. He sighed, frustrated, and let his head fall on his knees again. There was silence between Harry, Dumbledore, and Chris for a moment. The only thing that could be heard was the six year old Chris' cries and struggles as he tried to get the man off him, and the sound of fabric tearing as the aforementioned man began ripping the boy's already tattered clothes completely off.

Abruptly, the memory projection cut off.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris sat on the floor of the Gryffindor sixth years' bathroom, his back against the tub, getting control of his rapid breathing. He couldn't believe himself. Why had he even tried to sleep? He should have known something like this would happen. It always happened, unless he was around Wyatt, who knew enough ancient magic to decrease the severity of his dreams. …Damn Wyatt.

Chris closed his eyes and just concentrated on breathing for a moment, pushing aside any more self-depreciating thoughts. …Breathe in through the nose, hold for two seconds, exhale through mouth. Inhale through nose, hold for three seconds, exhale through mouth. Breathe in…

Not even two seconds later, Chris felt his mind wandering again. He had freaked out. Lost his composure. Shown weakness. They had seen it all.

And his memories. What exactly had they seen? It was all so fast in his dream. Everything. Fast. He hadn't been able to focus a single memory. All he had known was the pain in all of them. The failure. The shame. The guilt. Everything. So, what had his roommates and headmaster seen? Did they know… everything?

Before he could stress over it any longer, there was a knock on the door, and, before he could answer, it opened. Harry appeared. The black-haired teen came in and closed the door behind him. Before Chris could get up, Harry sat down across from him.

_Ah, shit_, Chris thought unhappily. _He wants to talk._

"That was some nightmare," Harry commented offhandedly. "No wonder you don't like sleeping."

Chris snorted mirthlessly but didn't say anything.

Harry didn't seem to mind. He pulled something out of his robes pocket and set it in front of Chris. "Dumbledore thought you might want that. He said he'll excuse you from classes today if you'll get some actual sleep."

It was a potion vial, which Harry explained was a Dreamless Sleep Potion. Chris rolled his eyes. "If something that simple would work, don't you think I would have already used it?"

"Why won't it work?" Harry asked quickly, his curiosity finally making an unconcealed appearance. He blushed, realizing he had blown the unconcerned mask in less than a minute.

Chris smirked. He knew Harry wasn't as nonchalant as he had been acting. "You're a terrible actor," he remarked teasingly.

"Oh, and you're any better?" Harry shot back, then stopped. "Oh. Right. …You are."

Chris actually laughed, but he, too stopped. "Well, I wasn't a few minutes ago, was I?" he recalled, grimacing slightly. He shook his head and confided, "Man, I can't believe I freaked like that."

Harry shrugged. "Apparently, you've been through a lot, and you were forced to remember it all in one night. I would have freaked, too. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Chris smiled wryly, picking at the rug he was sitting on. "You sound like you've heard that a million times, yourself."

Harry shrugged again, sensing that Chris would close up again if he made a big deal out of any of this. "I used to have nightmares all the time. Last year and this summer, even more than usual. I don't know how many times I've woken these Gryffindors-- especially Ron-- up, and Hermione always had something classy to say so I didn't feel like an idiot. I'm just passing along her infinite wisdom." When Chris didn't say anything to that, Harry remarked, "You didn't answer my question. Why wouldn't it work?"

Chris gave Harry a blunt look and said in a voice to match, "No offense, Harry, but I don't want to talk about it. Just know that… potions won't work. And neither will spells."

Harry, frowned, and Chris was dismayed to find that Harry was taking every word for its worth. Damn it, he was figuring it out. "Is that because magic is what caused the nightmares? Were you cursed?"

_Bingo_. "Did I not just say that I don't want to talk about it?"

"You say that about everything," Harry said dismissively. "So that's a yes. Who cursed you? Snape? Malfoy? Voldemort? The Source?"

Chris rolled his eyes. "Harry…" he said in a mildly warning tone.

"Chris…" Harry shot right back, not backing down.

Chris sighed, rolling his eyes again. "You might as well change the subject, because I'm _not_ talking about it. It's none of your business."

Harry glared acidly. Chris just gave him that 'what are you going to do about it?' look.

Harry rolled his eyes and gave a frustrated sigh. Chris had to stop himself from smiling.

There was silence. After a length, Chris sighed as well, only softer. "So, what exactly did my rogue power show?" he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone.

"Why? Is there something you didn't want us to find out about you?" Harry retorted, clearly still annoyed from being so bluntly rejected. At Chris' un-amused look, he sighed and counted off, "You fighting some Greek-looking giants, your… er… twin sister… er…"

"Yeah," Chris interrupted, waving at him to continue, clearly understanding what Harry was trying to say.

"Yeah, and then you were chained to a wall and there were dead bodies, and the Source was trying to get you to tell him where a city was…"

"Yeah," Chris waved him on again, looking a bit paler.

"Er, okay. Then there was a man with, well, dark blonde hair and he, well, hit you a few times and wanted you to apologize for something…"

"Yeah, yeah, what after that?"

"Then I left and came back when you were kind of… awake. You know, where that man that was about to…"

"Yeah, got it. Nothing else?" Chris interrupted quickly. He didn't deny those events were all important to him on some level, but he needed to know if Harry had even a slight idea about Lily, or the fact that Wyatt was his brother… or the fact that Chris had worked with Wyatt in his mad genocide missions. When Harry shook his head, regarding Chris with slight suspicion, Chris breathed an unconscious sigh of relief.

Harry's eyes narrowed even further. "What are you so afraid of us finding out?"

"If there _was_ something, do you really think I'd tell you just because you asked?" Chris returned simply, trying not to smile. Harry rolled his eyes, and Chris couldn't help the smile, now.

"What are you smiling about?" Harry asked suspiciously.

Chris shook his head. "Nothing. Just tell me, how often did you roll your eyes before I showed up?"

"Er… every so often. Why?"

Smirking now, Chris just shook his head and asked, "What time is it?"

Frowning at the abrupt change of subject, Harry checked his watch. "Six o'clock. Why?"

Chris jumped to his feet with surprising enthusiasm and moved around Harry to the door. "Perfect time to start the day!" he said brightly and held the door open for Harry. As they headed out of the dormitory, he finished not so brightly, "…And... get... coffee."

TBC...

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	14. Of Reactions

**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing, and the paragraphs marked under (1) were taken directly from the ****Half-Blood Prince****... which I don't own, either, because it definitely is not 'nothing'. **

**This chapter is dedicated to Charmedgrl4ever, who has been an avid- AVID- reader from the very beginning, and whose reviews have always been both enthusiastic and inspiring. I'm sorry for this incredibly long wait, and I hope the length makes up for it. Thanks for sticking with me, and here's to you!**

**Chapter 14: Of Reactions**

News about Chris' nightmare spread fast, even for Hogwarts' standards. As Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Chris walked to class, students from every house whispered and gawked shamelessly, some even doubling back to get a second look.

"It's rude to point!" Ron snapped at a third year girl who was pointing at Chris and telling her friends she'd heard that he had faced down fifty giants to save hundreds of innocent kids, just last week. Interrupted in their crooning over their brave idol, the girls blanched and scampered away.

Chris rolled his eyes, barely concealing the depth of his irritation. "Seamus and Dean are going to die for this," he stated evenly as even more girls pointed and whispered, perfectly infatuated with his heroic, tragic past.

"Just keep ignoring it," said Harry wearily. He had been receiving this kind of treatment for years, whereas Chris seemed relatively new to fame. "They'll forget about it in a week or two and just get used to your sarcastic rudeness, and go back to their own business… until you do something else gossip-worthy…"

Chris eyed Harry. "Am I supposed to be relieved or offended by that?"

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "Your choice."

Harry had also heard several people speculate on why the demon-hunter was staying close to the Chosen One throughout most of the day, and the general consensus was that Chris was Harry's bodyguard and personal trainer, much to Harry's severe annoyance. He wasn't sure if Chris had caught wind of that rumor yet, but he was too uncertain about how to bring it up, for Chris was dealing with a bit more than a few rumored stories of heroism. It had also gotten around that Chris' twin sister had killed herself, and people were going out of their ways to do things for him- like carry his book bag, or open doors, or fetch him snacks… to the point that Chris had snapped irritably, "I'm mentally fucked, you moron, not physically invalid!"- causing the 'moron' to scamper away with a last call that she was there if he ever needed to talk.

Harry had offered to curse several people for him, feeling bad that Chris was being constantly reminded of what happened in this way, but his offers were blown off, and Chris just ignored the people that treated him like a tragic hero. Except for one.

"What do you say we get out of the castle after this last class and have an Occlumency lesson down by the lake?" suggested Harry as they sat down for lunch. "We always have the rest of Friday afternoons off… and I want to learn how to 'keep a wall up' while I sleep."

Chris smirked and raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting I tell you, then test it by knocking you out and seeing if you dream? Alrighty, then."

Harry threw him a dirty look, though it was belied by the twinkling in his eyes. "No," he said, as though trying to speak patiently to a slow two-year-old. "I mean, you can tell me, and we'll practice normally. If you knocked me out, I probably wouldn't wake up, now, would I?"

Chris raised his eyebrows, trying to hide his own amusement. "Why, I wouldn't know what you're talking about, Mr. Potter. I wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Uh huh," said Harry skeptically. He was about to add something when a group of nearby girls attracted his attention with their rather loud gossiping.

"Well, a little girl wouldn't just kill herself for no reason, would she?" 'whispered' the girl with blond hair in a confidential tone. "I mean, little girls just don't do that sort of thing. There had to be a reason. They fought demons, didn't they? And demons are bad _guys_…"

"You think his sister was-- was _you-know-what_?" gasped another, brunette girl, eyes going round.

The blond looked grim. "It would make sense. I know I'd probably kill myself if a dirty old man did that to _me_…"

"Just ignore them," Harry reminded Chris under his breath, noticing how the American's eyes had narrowed coldly. "They're just senseless, gossiping Hufflepuffs…"

Harry noticed Ron and Hermione tense slightly at the allegations, too, and they threw dirty looks at the sickeningly concerned Hufflepuffs. Ron pulled out his wand, taking aim between the brunette's shoulders, and growled, "Want me to jinx them? I can get them from here…"

Chris just shook his head mutely, glaring at his goblet of pumpkin juice. He picked it up with a quiet sigh and swirled it into coffee. When he took a sip, he was tempted to spit it out, it was so sweet and… sharp. He took another sip, trying to figure out what country it was from. Countries mattered when it came to coffee…

Harry sighed and tried changing the subject. "…Hagrid's still avoiding us. He hasn't been coming to meals since he found out we dropped his class…"

"Who's Hagrid?" asked Chris curiously, then took another sip of the coffee and mumbled bitterly, "…I bet this is German… the sweet-toothed bastards…"

"WHAT?" three voices exclaimed, shocked at the vehement, random statement.

Chris blinked innocently. "The coffee. …Never mind. Anyways, who's Hagrid?"

"He's the Care of Magical Creatures teacher," explained Hermione, still looking quite confused about his strange statement. She glanced back to the staff table, her expression saddening. Hagrid's large chair was empty, as Harry had stated. "He's been our friend since our first year, but we dropped his class this year because it was horrible…"

"It wasn't horrible!" Harry instantly protested. At Ron and Hermione's raised eyebrows, he squirmed and conceded, "Alright, so it was a little… er… _unorthodox_, but it was _useful_… sort of…"

He was saved from further floundering, however, when someone-- one of the gossiping Hufflepuff girls-- knocked into Chris, who flinched more sharply than Harry really thought necessary, and her books went tumbling to the floor.

The blond girl's eyelashes fluttered girlishly, and she put a perfectly manicured hand to her mouth. "Oops," she simpered. "Clumsy me."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all held their breath, waiting to see how Chris would deal with this situation. Harry gripped his wand beneath his robes, ready to act if Chris decided to throw the girl across the Great Hall.

For a moment, Chris didn't react; he just stared at her with decidedly unreadable eyes. Then, unsmiling, he looked to the books. "These yours?" he asked unnecessarily, picking them up.

The girl gave a theatric giggle and brushed Chris' shoulder. "What a dear," she crooned, holding out her hands for the books.

Looking directly at her, Chris held up the books, and let the bottom one fall back to the floor. Her jaw dropped. Chris continued looking at her squarely. "Do _not_ touch me," he stated coldly, softly. He let another drop. "Do not presume to know _anything_ about my life." He dropped another. "And do _not_ call me 'dear'." He dropped the last one.

With that, he turned back to the table, ignoring her indignant fuming and Harry, Ron, and Hermione's shocked expressions. He took a roll from the platter and promptly bit into it, unconcerned with all the looks he was receiving.

It wasn't until the girl had stomped away to join her gang of friends that the trio finally reacted.

Harry and Ron burst into laughter while even Hermione gave an amused grin.

"That was bloody brilliant, mate!" Ron cheered, clapping Chris soundly on the back, only to find himself suddenly slammed backwards off the bench by an invisible force. Ron's backside hit the floor with a muffled thump.

"What the bloody hell was that for?" demanded Harry, baffled, stunned, and a bit angry.

"Don't touch me. Seriously, I _just_ said it," replied Chris, unconcerned. He frowned at the roll and put it down. He picked up his coffee instead.

"You could at least give a guy a warning before you go and do something like that," grumbled Ron, getting back to his seat with only mild resentment. They were all more perplexed than Ron was hurt.

Chris glanced at him briefly before returning calmly, "That _was_ your warning."

There was silence as the trio stared at him.

"You really don't like being touched, do you?" Harry voiced at last, looking at Chris with a curious eye.

Chris gave him a look of detached disbelief. "Ya _think_?"

Harry, however, wasn't fazed. He shrugged, thinking about all he had seen and heard of Chris' life fighting demons. "I really can't blame you." And then another memory swam to the front of his mind, unbidden. He sifted uncomfortably, wondering if now was an appropriate time to ask about it. Curiosity got the best of him. "…Who was that man… in your dream last night… that was hitting you?"

Chris looked at him blankly. "…Harry, in case you're not getting this, I have fought, and been hit by many, many people in my life. If you want specifics, I'm going to need how many years or months or weeks ago, or a description, or a situation, or _something_ more than 'who hit you?'"

Harry frown wryly and provided, "You looked about, I dunno, eleven or twelve. You were arguing with him, and he hit you and made you apologize for something."

Chris frowned slightly, looking as though he vaguely recognized the scenario. "Okay, one key question- did I know what the hell I was apologizing for?"

Harry considered. _I'm… I'm sorry I can't… can't be better?_ "Definitely not."

"Ah. Leo."

"Leo?" repeated the trio.

"Yes." At their blank looks, he just shook his head. "Never mind. Long story. Shall we get to Charms?"

For a moment, Harry wanted to argue, but at a rather sharp look from Chris, he dropped it.

Charms passed relatively quickly, and the next thing they knew, they were strolling across the lawn towards a remote corner of the lake. Double and triple checking that no one was around, the quartet settled down on a cluster of logs and stumps on the shore.

"Alright," said Chris, pulling a contemplative expression. "Holding up a wall while you sleep…. Let's see…." And he was silent, apparently mapping out how to explain it.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched him, but after a few minutes of nothing, they shared perplexed looks. Silence lapsed on. They began to get bored. More silence. They got restless. Harry tapped his foot. Ron counted leaves. Hermione retraced her thoughts, wondering when she made the decision not to bring her book bag. Silence.

Suddenly, Chris voiced, "I dunno. Just… go around practicing hardening emotions into walls, and before you know it, you'll do it for something before you go to sleep, and it'll just be there. It's really only, like, thirty percent concentration, and the rest is just attitude."

Ron snorted and Harry grinned, "Well, no wonder you're so good at it. Seventy percent attitude…"

"Ha ha," said Chris, rolling his eyes. "Very original, Harry."

"I like to think so."

"Because, with an attitude like mine, no one's _ever_ accused it of being a problem…"

"Boys. I believe Dumbledore would like you to spend these lessons _constructively_."

"Yes, ma'am," Chris saluted smartly.

"You realize that's the only time you've ever said ma'am- that I've heard, anyway?" Hermione mused abruptly. "I noticed you're rather rude to the teachers."

"Ma'am and sir are expressions of respect," replied Chris, shrugging. "I believe they are grossly, excessively abused."

"You don't say," remarked Hermione pensively. She lapsed into silence, thinking about that statement, but when she noticed Harry and Chris not doing anything, she finished, "Well, don't let me stop you from your lesson."

"I wouldn't." -Chris.

"So, are we going to actually practice, now?" asked Harry, getting the sudden pointed impression that Chris was stalling, and he considered it proved when Chris pulled a face.

"…I suppose we have to," he muttered, clearly reluctant. He sighed, drawing even more confusion from the three, and made himself comfortable on the ground, before actually looking at Harry. Harry, though confused, met the gaze and hastily tried to recall everything they'd gone over last lesson. Chris kindly reminded him. "Remember- grab an emotion, push it to the surface, and harden it. Concentrate on it, not me. Ready?"

Decisively, Harry nodded. Chris gave a single nod, then counted off reluctantly, "One… two… three."

Harry concentrated on his wall- which happened to be made of the extreme annoyance he'd felt all day regarding the flying rumors. He immediately felt a sensation of being plowed over by a speeding locomotive, and then the force was in his memories.

_- It was the summer before Harry's second year, and he was laboring in the garden, ripping out weeds and sweating bullets. The children from down the street chased each other on bicycles, and he could only watch, insides aching with envy.  
- Harry and Hermione dashed about the Whomping Willow, trying to chase after Ron, who was being dragged down a tunnel by a giant black dog.  
- Harry laid on his bed, just this past summer, completely numb. Not hungry, though he hadn't eaten for- what- a day? Two? Not hot, though it was sweltering outside and the window was thrown open. Not bored, though he only stared at the ceiling. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Sirius was dead._

"Damn it," Chris' voice sounded in the distance, and suddenly the memories stopped, and he was staring at the brilliant blue sky, sheltered slightly by scattered trees. He blinked and pulled himself into a sitting position, already feeling sore. After he got a firm hold on his surroundings, he looked over to where Chris was staring at the ground, obviously thinking hard.

"What?" he queried, wondering what had earned the swearing.

Chris glanced up, surprised, while Ron and Hermione frowned.

"You didn't see it?" asked Ron, examining Harry almost as closely as Hermione.

"See what?" Harry asked slowly, looking between them all.

"That would be my fault," said Chris, not looking happy and not looking at them. "I got a new power a few nights ago," he continued. "Memory projection. That's why you could see what I was dreaming last night, because they were memories, and I haven't gotten control of the power, yet. I accidentally projected your memories when I broke through your- pathetic- barrier." Finally, Chris looked up from the twig he was playing with, and asked Harry directly, "Do you want to put these lessons on hold until I get control of this power?"

Harry didn't even have to think about it. "Well, you're going to see my memories, anyway, aren't you? So, if I'm alright with you seeing it, I'm alright with them seeing it. Friends trust each other, you know," he felt a need to add pointedly, and Chris threw him a dirty look. Harry beamed innocently, continuing for good measure, "And this will be a perfect opportunity for you to practice getting a hold on that power, too. So let's go again!"

Chris gave him that same rather dirty look and said bluntly. "You're having way too much fun." When Harry only smirked, he sighed. "Fine. Well, remember, once I'm in, don't just give up. Throw me out. …So… One… two…" Silence. Chris didn't seem to have any intention of going on.

"Chris, come on!"

"…Fine, then. Three."

Harry barely had time to pick an emotion to harden before Chris came to 'three', and just threw up something that felt like a hard emotion. He concentrated on holding it up against the outside force that was pushing against it, which was this time less like a speeding train. Focusing, he hardened the emotion at the same rate the force got stronger, until it almost felt like two head butting rams. Then, suddenly, Chris got the upper hand and Harry's memories flashed before his eyes, but not so vividly as last time. Distantly, he could still make out the forms of his friends and the nature around them.

Grasping that awareness firmly, Harry felt inside his head for Chris' location, and felt the emotions of that memory- the emotions were strong. _It was at the Ministry, and he was afraid-- Hermione had just gotten hit by a spell from that mute Death Eater, and she was deathly pale, unconscious. Was she breathing? Was she alive? Oh God, please don't let Hermione be dead--_

Harry hurtled the fear at Chris with all the strength he could muster, and suddenly he felt like he had hit a solid brick wall going eighty miles an hour. He jerked backwards, reeling, and the memories stopped very abruptly.

"Sorry, man," Chris said apologetically from above him. "Damn. Is your nose bleeding?"

Blinking, still stunned from the impact, Harry rubbed his upper lip and glanced at his hand. Nothing but sweat. "No. I'm good. What the hell was that?"

"Oh. I just had my defenses too high. Sorry. That can get a little bloody, and very unhealthy. Are you sure you're okay? Do you remember where you are, your name and birthday, etc., etc.?" Chris peered at him with worry and concern.

"No, no. I'm fine." At everyone's skeptical concern, he sighed and recited, "Harry Potter, age sixteen, birthday July 31, location- lake beside the forbidden forest, generally the Boy-Who-Lived-And-Got-Chosen-For-Something-Or-Another."

"He's good," Ron announced in conformation.

Chris smirked. "Okay. And that was a very good job of throwing me out, by the way. You're getting better very quickly… again."

"Shall we try again?" Harry asked, thinking one more time wouldn't hurt… anymore than it already did. When Chris eyed him dubiously, Harry hastened to assure, "Come on. One more time won't hurt. Well, it'd actually be a lot better if you didn't have your defenses so high…"

Chris raised his eyebrows and returned, "It'd actually be a lot better if I couldn't get inside your mind in the first place, and you wouldn't have to worry about throwing me out."

Harry shrugged. "True. So, on the count of three?"

Chris glared. Harry blinked at him innocently. Chris, after a moment of internal struggling, sighed. "Well, if you really want to learn, who am I to refuse you that? So… ready?" Harry nodded. "Alright. One… two… three."

Harry focused on his wall and immediately felt the force push at it. There was the split second battle of strength, then the force was in.

_- Harry, Ron, and Hermione shifted nervously in front of the crowd gathered in the Hog's Head to hear about Hermione's idea for a defense organization. Some of the faces were genuinely interested, but others looked like they were just waiting to jump down his throat.  
- Harry watched Hermione pace in front of the table of potions, mumbling parts of the riddle to herself as she tried to figure out which potion would get them through the flames to the Sorcerer's Stone. Anticipation. Dread. Urgency. Voldemort would get the Stone and come back to life if Harry didn't stop him. But what if he already had it? What if they were too late? Urgency._

Harry grasped it, let it consume him, steeled it, and flung it with all his might at the force that was driving through his mind. He flung it so hard he felt it crash back into Chris, and it broke through Chris' defenses. Suddenly, the still September air was filled with the projection of Chris' memories.

_- A seven or eight year old Chris sat cross-legged on the ground in some sort of underground cell, knee-to-knee, with a girl the same age, with the same face. His twin sister. The two sat across from each other, both staring at the ground between them. Their clothes were torn and tattered, and their faces and exposed skin bloody and bruised. They were silent. There was nothing to say.  
- "In a bit of hot water, this time, aren't you?" whispered Lord Voldemort, sneering down at the bloody and beaten form of Christopher Halliwell, who lay at the foot of a gravestone behind Riddle Manor. But, to the surprise of everyone, Chris smiled.  
Wiping a bloody lip with a filthy sleeve, he replied softly, looking directly up into Voldemort's scarlet, pitiless eyes, "Oh, but I am an adamant believer in getting into hot water." A cough suddenly racked his body, and thick crimson trickled from his mouth, but he continued smiling all the same. His green eyes boring straight into Voldemort's scarlet, he finished, "I believe it keeps us clean, Tom."  
- "You know, the thing about being the baby of the family," a man in loose black leather was saying calmly to a very young, bruised Chris, who was imprisoned in a crystal cage, "is that you always get the least amount of power. The youngest witches just get the left over powers of the family." He smirked down at the small boy, who didn't look afraid, merely… sad. "Sucks for you."  
"You know another thing about the baby of the family?" said a new voice, and suddenly three middle aged women and a young blond boy were standing around Chris, facing the demon. The youngest of the women continued, "When you take the baby, you're only pissing off the older, more powerful, and more experienced family members." She held up a potion vial and smirked before she chucked it. "Sucks for you."_

Suddenly, Harry fell back, and the memories cut off. There was silence as they all pulled themselves together, then Chris commended, "That was good, Harry. You've really got the hang of throwing people out. You just need to working on not letting them inside in the first place. But it was good."

Harry nodded in acknowledgement, focusing on breathing. He still hadn't sat up. There was a moment of silence. At length, Ron asked conversationally, though Harry could hear definite interest in his voice, "So you're the youngest in your family?"

Chris hesitated, then replied, "…Yeah, I guess I am, now." At their confused glances, he explained a little reluctantly, "My aunts had children after I was born, but they were all killed over the years. So I'm the youngest again."

While Hermione winced sympathetically, Ron volunteered, also sympathetic, "I'm the second to youngest in my family."

"Really? How many siblings do you have?" Chris asked curiously.

"A little sister," sighed Ron, shaking his head, "and five older brothers."

Chris' eyes widened unbelievingly. "Jesus," he breathed emphatically. "And I'm barely surviving _two _older brothers."

"Eh, we all get along pretty decently-- well, except Percy, the third oldest, he's being a dumb prat at the moment. But besides him… my family's alright," said Ron.

This was the first time Ron had talked to anyone who came from a large family, too, Harry mused after wondering why Ron was speaking amiably towards the suspected ex-Death Eater.

Chris smiled wryly. "Insert jealousy here."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

That night, after Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been asleep for several hours, Chris pried his gaze away from his window and slid down from the ledge. It was past midnight, therefore, it was Saturday morning, and he had no reason to stay at the school on weekends. He did Charms and Transfiguration homework in class, since their spells and concepts didn't apply to him, and Defense, Herbology, Potions, and History of Magic homework was easy, so he could do those early Monday morning. He didn't need Hogwarts at all for weekends, so he had no intention of staying.

He, once again, had to insult and threaten the stone gargoyle outside of Dumbledore's office for a whole five minutes before it was so ashamed of itself and so afraid for its existence, that it actually ran off, both to get away from its would-be torturer, and to hide its face in shame. As Chris stepped on the winding staircase, he felt both pleased with himself that he could still make even inanimate objects fear for their lives, and frustrated that he had to in the first place. Did Dumbledore keep forgetting to give him the password on purpose, or was it really just slipping his mind?

He opened the door to Dumbledore's office, and was met with the pleasantly reproving voice of the headmaster. "I thought I told you I did not want to hear that sort of language in my school ever again?"

"You wouldn't have to if you actually gave me the password," Chris pointed out, taking a seat across from the old wizard.

"Haven't I?" queried Dumbledore thoughtfully. "Well, it will be 'acid pops' for the rest of this week and the next, but it changes every fortnight." Chris nodded, not too concerned at the strangeness of the password, and Dumbledore continued conversationally, "I've heard quite a number of rumors about you today, Chris. How are you handling the schoolchildren's gossip?"

Chris shrugged. "I'll survive. Although a few chatterboxes may not, if they keep it up more than a few days."

"It may behoove you to know that I like my students rare, not well-done or extra-crispy," Dumbledore informed him with a benign smile.

"I make no promise," Chris returned, nonchalant.

Dumbledore chuckled, then pulled out his wand. "Tea?" he asked pleasantly, and his eyes twinkled. "Or coffee, rather?"

"No, thanks," said Chris. "I won't be staying long."

"Indeed?"

"I want to go back to the Resistance on weekends. There's no reason for me to stay, at all, so I won't. That's all there is to it. Let me go." When the wizard opened his mouth, expression slightly clouded, Chris rolled his eyes, knowing his thoughts. "I'll come back. Don't worry about that. Now are you going to lower the barriers?"

Dumbledore smiled wryly. "What if you're hurt while you're gone? A lot can happen in two days. My vow of protection wouldn't mean a lot if you were captured with me none the wiser."

Chris stared at him. "…Are- you- _serious_? You're worried about me getting _hurt_? Jesus, man, it's a war! That's what people _do_! It's unavoidable- but, come on, even if I die, the chances that I'll stay dead are slim to _none_. Just let me go!"

Dumbledore looked at Chris for a moment, then sighed softly. He laced his fingers together on his desk and looked at them. "I'm not trying to keep you away from your involvements, Chris," he began quietly, sincerely. "I'm not. I just want for you to be safe. I'll let you go if we can come up with a way for you to be able to contact me, should you need to notify me of something, or if you need help. That's all I ask."

Chris blinked. Dumbledore watched him carefully with compassionate eyes. Chris blinked again, and finally found his voice. "Really? …That's kinda weird, old man."

Dumbledore's bushy white eyebrows rose slightly, but his clear blue eyes didn't change. "Do you really think so? Is it so weird for an _old man _to be concerned about a child's safety? I think not."

"It is if you've only known that child for a week. And I'm not a child, anyway, so this scenario makes even less sense," said Chris, frowning and feeling a cold prickle under his skin. He didn't like where this conversation was going.

"Are you so unwilling to accept the fact that someone may actually care about you, Chris?" Dumbledore asked the magic question.

The cold prickle under Chris' skin became an all out frost of chilly foreboding.

Sure, over the years people had tried being concerned for him and watching out for his safety, but as soon as he started getting attached to them and started letting them help him little by little, they always gave up. He wasn't an easy person to talk to, and he wasn't an easy person to fix. Chris knew this, so he didn't blame them for giving up on him. He didn't blame them at all, especially when he remembered that they had at least _tried_ to help him.

But he wasn't comfortable with the idea of going through that cycle again. If Dumbledore followed the same path as the others that had cared for him, Dumbledore would pry. Then Dumbledore would stop trying to pry, and just try to be patient and understanding. Then Dumbledore would give up, because Chris would take way too long to trust him and talk to him. Then Chris would be devastated, because Dumbledore had deemed him a lost cause, just like everyone else. And then, ultimately, Dumbledore would die. They all did.

Chris didn't want to go through the cycle again.

"Professional interest?" Chris asked coldly, almost hopefully, an indescribable fear trickling down his spine as he remembered all the others who had honestly cared about him.

Dumbledore leveled him a look, and Chris had to close his eyes as all hope of 'no attachments' vanished. He swore softly.

"Chris…" Dumbledore began, but Chris cut him off abruptly.

"Look, this is a pendant blessed by the Power of Three," he said, pulling his only necklace out from under his shirt. It was the Warren-Halliwell emblem, the triquetta- silver, on a silver and crimson chain- and probably his most beloved possession. "Even Wyatt doesn't know what it really is. I haven't taken it off since I was eleven, so he just thinks I really like it. It'll take me where ever I want, regardless of magical barriers or impediments, or to _whoever_ I want, no matter where they are."

Dumbledore, of course, was intrigued, and very curious. "May I see it?" he asked politely, and Chris hesitated only a moment. Carefully, he pulled it over his head and handed it to Dumbledore across the desk.

Dumbledore took it just as carefully and turned it over, scrutinizing it with apparent interest. After a moment he asked softly, "Goblin-made?" Chris nodded mutely. "Incredible… Absolutely marvelous… Reusable?"

"For three times, and I've used it once."

"Incredible," murmured Dumbledore again, handing it back. "And I suppose they also charmed it so that you're the only one who can take it off? The chain is rather long for something so powerful, unless they could guarantee it wouldn't just slip over your head in the confusion of battle."

"It is," assured Chris as he pulled it back over his head and tucked it under his shirt. "They thought of everything, those three. And I suppose you noticed its magical signature is hidden?"

"I did. One wouldn't guess it anymore than a beautiful piece of jewelry," said Dumbledore appreciatively. "Very intelligent, your aunts and mother. Very powerful."

"Yes, I gathered that much," stated Chris, growing impatient. "So will you let the barrier down?"

He grinned as Dumbledore sighed.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"Everything's going to be alright," Chris said bracingly, even as he hastened to untie the innocent's hands faster, very conscious of the loud bangs of their enemies trying to get through the door. He helped the young, shivering man to his feet and turned to see how his teammates Andrea, Duncan, and Joden were doing. They were just finishing freeing their innocents, as well.

Suddenly, their vampire teammate, Duncan, raised his head and looked to the window. "The Death Eaters' leader will be here any second," he reported coolly, not explaining how he knew. The rest of the FU team had learned not to ask.

"Alright, shall we all gather round the window, jump out, and head back to the jet?" asked Joden brightly, dusting off his innocent helpfully.

"Hold on. Are there any more of you?" Chris asked the young man he had untied, watching his face carefully. The whole lot of Muggles seemed to be in shock, and Chris couldn't blame them. Death Eaters sure knew how to torture.

Slowly, eyes wide and unseeing, the boy shook his head a fraction of an inch to each side. "N-no. Ash-Ashley's… d-dead…" he whispered faintly, staring at a spot just over Chris' shoulder. "…She's dead…"

Chris frowned slightly, sympathetic. "Do you… do you know what happened to… to her body?" he asked hesitantly, revolted at the idea of leaving the girl's body with Death Eaters.

He young man shuddered and murmured hoarsely, "They… they left her there… on the floor… where they… where they k-killed her… She's still there…"

Chris nodded once. "Alright. Joden and Andrea, take them back to the jet. Duncan, with me. We'll get- um- Ashley- and rendezvous at the jet."

Andrea, Joden, and Duncan nodded, and Andrea and Joden led the innocents over to the window. Andrea, whose sole power was conjuring, conjured a rope ladder, tied it expertly to the windowsill, and tossed the rest out the third-story window. The two began helping innocents down while Duncan swept over to Chris.

"I smelled a great amount of blood in a single room on the ground floor."

Chris considered the shuddering door and wall for a moment. Voldemort would be arriving soon, so there would be no time to fight the Death Eaters on the other side AND get the girl's body before _he_ came into the picture. They would have to get by the Death Eaters undetected and hopefully be gone before Voldemort ever arrived.

"You smelled it from outside?" he asked slowly, a plan forming. "…As in, there was a window?"

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

The next morning, the trio cornered McGonagall to find out whether she knew of Chris' disappearance, which had startled them at first, when they could find him nowhere, even on the Marauder's Map.

"The headmaster has given Halliwell weekends off to take care of _personal_ matters," McGonagall informed them pointedly after their insistent interrogating. "I suggest you think little of it and get to work on your homework. As sixth years, you will have quite a load to take care of."

Once McGonagall was down the corridor and out of earshot, Harry, Ron, and Hermione faced each other.

"Why do you reckon he didn't tell us?" asked Ron suspiciously, his earlier understanding with Chris dissolving with the seconds. "I mean, 'personal matters'? What does _that_ mean?"

"He might need to help his aunts with demonic problems," said Hermione evenly. "I mean, if his mother died, the Power of Three no longer exists, and they might need all the help they can get."

Harry and Ron shared looks, then Harry shook his head. "We'll talk to him about it when he gets back. For now, let's go see Hagrid, before he has time to get even angrier with us. And, who knows? Hagrid's been around a while. Maybe he knows something more recent about the Halliwells than Slughorn."

It turned out Hagrid had only to say about the Halliwells, "Halliwell? …Halliwell…. I dunno. Sounds familiar, but I don' remember from what, exac'ly…."

The day wasn't a complete waste, however, as the trio managed to convince Hagrid that he was a wonderful teacher, but they just couldn't fit him in their schedules, and the four were comfortable in their friendship, again.

Sunday passed with them doing their mountain of homework, and, as they went to bed for the night, Chris still wasn't back.

Monday morning dawned bright and crisp in the Gryffindor dorms. Chris wasn't there. Harry and Ron stumbled down to breakfast, sitting with Hermione at the table. Chris wasn't there. Hermione ran off to Arithmancy, and Harry and Ron walked out of the Great Hall, only to find the double doors to the Entrance Hall thrown open, and Chris practically fall through. They stopped, gaping.

Chris was very clearly disheveled. He was hopping on one foot, trying to get a shoe on-- not his usual boots, either, but scruffy black Converses; he had a black Three Days Grace hoodie thrown precariously over a shoulder, which he quickly moved to pull on as soon as his shoe was on. Harry and Ron, who hadn't moved, caught a glimpse of his left arm as he donned the hoodie and saw that it was swathed in a white bandage, though he seemed to be able to use the arm perfectly fine. Still straightening his clothes and getting his balance, Chris finally glanced up and saw them. He beamed.

"Hey guys! Have I missed first period? I completely forgot about the time differences, so it was, like, only midnight over there when I realized what time it would be here," he said very quickly, practically sprinting to the staircase that would lead to History of Magic. He was almost to the top of the staircase when he realized they hadn't moved. He stopped in his ascent, frowning. "Something wrong?"

"Your left arm," stated Harry numbly, hardly able to believe his eyes. "…What…?"

Chris continued to appear confused for a moment before comprehension dawned on him. "Oh, the bandages? Old wound. Never quite healed properly. So, I assume that since you're doing nothing, it's still first period?"

And Harry could get no more out of him about the wound.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Days passed with nothing too eventful. Chris was summoned to Dumbledore's office every other night 'for tea' and evaded every personal question skillfully. They continued talking about nothing. The trio cooled down on questioning his each and every move, while the school continued to fawn over him. Chris got the impression the trio was waiting for the dust to settle from his nightmare before they started in on him again. But, on the whole, their friendship began to slowly and painstakingly improve, due to this unquestioning acceptance.

On Friday, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Chris once again journeyed to the remote spot beside the lake and practiced Occlumency, but Harry only got into Chris' head once, and merely saw a brief flash of some girl's face before he was thrown back out.

The next weekend came, and Chris vanished again. They could wring nothing out of him concerning his whereabouts when he returned Monday, though they tried every method of coaxing they knew, bar magic. He was a closed book. So, grudgingly, they deigned to wait until he simply told them. To the three who fancied themselves detectives, this indefinite wait was torture.

That week passed as well, nothing eventful. It wasn't until Friday, after the Occlumency lesson, that Harry suddenly recalled that he was Quidditch captain, and that he hadn't held tryouts.

As he and Ron sat in the common room, contemplating who they might find and how good of a team they might get, Harry caught sight of Chris and Hermione doing homework by the window. His eyes brightened and Ron, catching the look, glanced over there as well. The two shared interested looks before Harry called,

"Hey Chris, can you play Quidditch?"

Chris glanced up curiously from the assignment he and Hermione were discussing. "What's Quidditch?"

((Insert Harry, Ron, and Hermione's deaths here. Harry died of a heart attack, Ron died from a stroke, and Hermione died from laughing))

"IT'S ONLY THE BEST GAME IN THE WORLD!" Ron roared, attracting the attention of a nearby group of third years. Ron didn't care. He and Harry were off, explaining all about the four balls and the positions of the seven players, describing famous games they'd been to, what broomsticks they had, and which were the best. They explained the finer points of the game and went off explaining certain moves certain players could use when certain situations arouse, all for about an hour.

To his credit, Chris listened to it all with interest before finally admitting, when Harry asked him if he wanted to tryout, that he was so dreadful on a broom that they actually were known to fly away from him when he got too close.

Harry deflated almost instantly. "And I don't suppose you're just being modest, or exaggerating, are you?" he asked glumly, already knowing the answer.

Chris shook his head, sadly sympathetic.

Harry sighed. "Are you sure you haven't improved since the last time you tried, maybe?" he said as a last ditch effort, not happy with the idea of composing an almost completely new team full of strangers. Almost everyone from his original team had graduated, and last year's team hadn't exactly been a dream come true.

Chris looked at him curiously, and Harry got the sudden inexplicable idea that his was being x-rayed or mind-read, but the instant passed and Chris said, "Last year's team was that bad?"

"Well… I got kicked off the team last year, and… well, the rest of the team's tempers were always running pretty high with each other. It'd be nice to have a bit of different chemistry."

Chris' mouth made an 'ah', but he still held to that he was terrible at flying. "I think I'll go to the tryouts to watch, though," he said thoughtfully. "The game sounds really interesting."

"You mean you're not leaving this weekend, again?" asked Ron somewhat resentfully, still not happy that they weren't being told the details of his weekend escapades.

Chris considered. "I think not," he said at length. "They can do whatever they're doing without me… for a while, anyway."

"Can you at least tell us who 'they' are?" asked Hermione wearily, already knowing he wouldn't.

Chris smiled and shook his head. "Not yet."

"You mean you will?" exclaimed Harry loudly in surprise.

Chris glared at the volume, but then smiled wryly again. "Knowing you guys, you'll be involved pretty soon, so I'd imagine I'll be the one to tell you when the time comes."

"Why not now?" demanded Ron.

"It's one of those, 'you're safe as long as you don't know' things," he responded dismissively, going back to his homework. "I'm not putting you in danger unless you bring it upon yourself, first."

"Gee, thanks," came Harry's sardonic reply. Chris chuckled.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

The next morning, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table and learned that Stan Shunpike, young, pimply conductor of the Knight Bus, had been arrested for Death Eater activity, to their astonished incredulity.

(1) "The Ministry probably wants to look like they're doing something," said Hermione, frowning. "People are terrified-- you know the Patil twins' parents want them to go home? And Eloise Midgen has already been withdrawn. Her father picked her up last night."

"What!" said Ron, goggling at Hermione. "But Hogwarts is safer than their homes, bound to be! We've got Aurors, and all those extra protective spells, and we've got Dumbledore!"

"I don't think we've got him all the time," said Hermione very quietly, glancing toward the staff table over the top of the _Prophet_. "Haven't you noticed? His seat's been empty as often as Hagrid's this past week."

Harry and Ron looked up at the staff table. The headmaster's chair was indeed empty. Now Harry came to think of it, he had not personally seen Dumbledore since their private lesson a week ago.

"I think he's doing something for the Order," said Hermione in a low voice. "I mean… it's all looking serious, isn't it?" (End direct quotation)

Harry and Ron did not answer, and at that moment, Chris strolled in, putting his book he was reading into an inside pocket of his trench coat.

"Has Dumbledore told _you_ where he's been going?" Harry asked heavily as Chris took a seat.

Chris raised an eyebrow. "Hello to you, too, Sunshine. And I just passed Dumbledore going to his office on my way here. I dunno where he's been. So, where's the Quidditch field?"

As Harry expected, the trials took most of the morning. Chris and Hermione went to watch in the stands, while Harry tested out the aspiring players. It was a tough and irritating process, but at length he had his new team, Ron included.

"Well done," he croaked to the assembled team. "You flew really well--"

"You did brilliantly, Ron!" called Hermione as she and Chris walked towards them, and Ron looked extremely pleased with himself.

After fixing the time of their first full practice for the following Thursday, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Chris bade goodbye to the rest of the team and headed off towards Hagrid's, insisting that it was high time Chris meet him.

"I think you'll like him," stated Harry as he knocked on the door. "He's been around some pretty dangerous things, too--"

"Harry, Ro-- WHAT THE RUDDY HELL ARE _YEH_ DOIN' HERE?" Hagrid suddenly roared in shock and rage as he opened the door, his eyes falling on Chris. With a frightening snarl, the half giant threw his arms around Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and pulled them into the cabin behind him, shielding them from view of Chris, whose face Harry could no longer see. "YEH GET OUTTER HERE, I TELL YEH! YER NOT DOIN' ANYTHING TO THIS SCHOOL WHILE DUMBLEDORE AND ME ARE HERE! GET GONE, I SAID!"

"_Hagrid, what on earth--?" _began Harry vehemently, while Hermione and Ron made similar demands, all flummoxed. Harry had just managed to duck under Hagrid's high elbow when Chris, his face pure shock white, breathed faintly,

"…Oh, dear God…"

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A/N: Please review! **


	15. Of Giants

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter series or Charmed. Shame, isn't it? **

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**Chapter 15: Of Giants**

"_Hagrid, what on earth--?" began Harry vehemently, while Hermione and Ron made similar demands, all flummoxed. Harry had just managed to duck under Hagrid's high elbow when Chris, his face pure shock white, breathed faintly,_

"…_Oh, dear God…"_

"IT'S HIM, I TELL YEH!" Hagrid boomed at Dumbledore for what felt like the hundredth time. To Chris, who sat stone still, stormy eyes gazing fixedly out the window, one time was one time too many. This repetition was absolutely unbearable.

"My dear friend, I'm not denying that he is, in fact, himself," Dumbledore interrupted for the hundredth time, and this time forced his way through Hagrid's raucous, yet vague accusations. He continued with unyielding firmness, "Hagrid, if you could _please_ calm down and explain to me the problem of Chris being Chris, I might be able to help you through this startling realization. What is the matter?"

His blue eyes pierced through Hagrid's blind fury and suddenly the office became very quiet. Hagrid blinked a few times as he seemed to realize where he was and to whom he was speaking. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were watching the exchange with the same confusion that had latched onto them during Hagrid and Chris' first encounter only moments ago. Dumbledore seemed to emanate a stern sense of calm collectedness into the baffling situation.

Chris continued staring out the window, barely able to control his breathing. He wished, not for the first time, that Dumbledore would just expel him. He didn't want to sit here and explain; he just wanted to get away…. He wasn't ready to face all this… all these _people_….

"Professor," growled Hagrid, no longer yelling, but he might have been for the tone he used, "Las' year, when tha' Umbridge woman sacked me an' I went back ter the giants, _this is the scum tha' killed 'em all!_"

A ringing silence swept through the room. Chris slowly, painstakingly closed his eyes, willing himself to _just breathe_.

"Hagrid, are you quite cer--?" began Dumbledore with a serious frown.

"I KNOW THA' FACE!" thundered Hagrid, turning red with fury again. "IT'S HIM!"

Dumbledore took a brief moment before turning to Chris, who still hadn't met their eyes since their smashing entrance into the office. "Chris, is this true?" he asked gently. "Did you meet Hagrid at the giant camp… last June?"

Slowly, Chris reopened his eyes, and they instantly landed on the window. He watched silently as the sun slowly disappeared behind a dark gray cloud, casting the Quidditch pitch into a dim shadow. Without conscious thought, he wished Harry, Ron, and Hermione weren't in the room. Hagrid's presence was like a mountain on the forefront of his mind, and Dumbledore's piercing gaze cut into him like a double-edged blade, but the trio… They weren't involved in this… they didn't need to know…

"Should I interpret your silence as confirmation?" Dumbledore's heavy voice cut through his absent musings.

And, finally, Chris looked up, eyes empty. "…Will you expel me, now?"

For a moment, Dumbledore's clear blue eyes held Chris' stormy green, and a weight seemed to be shared between them. Dumbledore sighed. "I want to know what happened, Christopher."

"DON'T CALL ME CHRISTOPHER!" Chris shouted suddenly, angrily, surprising even himself. He blinked, slightly taken aback, but Hagrid sneered unmercifully,

"Isn' that what yer called, though, _Lord Chris'opher_?"

"No," Chris whispered sharply, blinking furiously at the floor, eyes clouded in thought. "It's not."

Hagrid snorted. "Yeah. Righ'. Tha's not wha' _I_ remember."

Chris threw him a violent sidelong glare. "Yeah, well you don't know all the facts, then, do you?"

"I know wha' you did, and tha's damn well enough!"

When Chris opened his mouth to retort, Dumbledore interrupted. "Gentlemen, _please_. Let's calm down and discuss this _rationally_. I am certain we can com to some sort of--" (sounds more British).

"I don't want to discuss this rationally," said Chris softly, coldly. "I want to leave. Just give up, already, and expel me."

Dumbledore, surprisingly, smiled benignly. "But I never give up. I am not convinced you are beyond redemption yet, my dear boy. Just give yourself time and you'll find that you are far stronger than you know."

"I used the _Embrayre Khans _to destroy them," Chris stated bluntly, and received the desired effect instantly. Dumbledore's smile vanished. The old man blinked, unable to comprehend what he obviously knew, and Chris turned his gaze back to the ground. Well, he had gotten the outcome he'd wanted, so why did that admittance suddenly feel like a stupid decision? He had surprised-- _shocked_-- the headmaster, possibly to the point of expulsion, which was what he wanted…

But he had admitted using dark… _dark_ magic… He hadn't really thought that move out, now that he considered it…

"Chris, if you are saying… _that_… just to provoke me to expel you, and it's not entirely true, you had best tell me now," warned Dumbledore softly, his eyes scouring the boy's face with an unprecedented sharpness.

Chris took a slow breath and stared down the carpet. "Believe me… I wouldn't lie about something like… something like that."

For a moment, the headmaster just stared at him. Then, with a quiet sigh from the headmaster, Chris saw him reach for his wand.

Chris consciously closed his eyes before the Stunner hit him.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry watched in alarm as Dumbledore, in the blink of an eye, drew his wand and stunned Chris. Next to him, Hermione gave a small exclamation and clamped her hand over her mouth, and Ron yelped, "Bloody hell…!"

"Professor?" Harry asked, discombobulated, as Dumbledore stood and swept around the desk to Chris' unconscious form. Dumbledore had bent down to check the American's pulse before responding,

"I want to get to the bottom of this quickly, Harry, and without the debatable input of his perspective."

When Harry said an unconvinced, 'oh', Hermione translated, "Anything that ends with '_khans_' is very dark magic, and he doesn't want Chris to try and manipulate the facts, since he's obviously capable of really… _bad_ things. But professor, why are you checking his pulse? That was just a Stunner, wasn't it?"

"It was," confirmed Dumbledore with a gentle, wistful smile, "But he is still my student, and it was a rather powerful Stunner, if I do say so myself. I wasn't sure if he could take it with his present health."

"Present health?" repeated Harry dubiously, eyeing his collapsed roommate.

Again, Dumbledore smiled. "Chris would not have stayed here for the weekend unless he didn't deem himself fit to leave. Of course he hasn't told me such… but he did appear to be in rather rough shape when he returned last week.

"Now, for our next course of action," he continued, becoming serious and grim. "Hagrid, I will need to see your memory of the event, if you do not object."

And so Dumbledore withdrew the silvery wisp of memory from the half-giant and placed it into the Pensieve.

"Harry, Ron, Hermione, if you are willing, I believe you have the right to know what this is about, as well," he said heavily, looking at each of the teens, who met his gaze with equaled frankness. "Although, I must warn you it will not be pretty, if he did in fact use the _Embrayre Khans_…"

"We're ready," assured Harry with a firm nod as he got to his feet. He was ready to see anything if it meant learning who Chris Halliwell actually was. He couldn't help but feel somewhat eager, now that he had a chance to unravel the mystery that was Christopher Haliwell. He was going to see who Chris had been before his coming to Hogwarts. He was going to see the character that led to so many confounding inconsistencies…like how he could know and be enemies with Snape, but be on first name basis with Draco Malfoy and Lord Voldemort himself… how he could be such a great Halliwell but know so much about the Dark Arts…

"Alright," said Dumbledore after a solemn silence. He motioned for the trio to join him at the Pensieve, while Hagrid refused to watch the event a second time. The three clustered around the shallow stone basin uncertainly. With a grim smile, Dumbledore said, "After you…"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared a brief glance. Ron and Hermione, having never used the Pensieve before, waited for Harry to lead, and copied him as he reached out and touched the swirling surface. He instantly felt his feet leave the office floor, and he was falling, falling through whirling darkness and then, quite suddenly, he was blinking in the musty darkness of an underground cave. Hermione, Ron, and Dumbledore landed beside him before his eyes had time to fully adjust.

The four squinted around, but didn't have to look in order to distinguish Hagrid lying on the rocky ground, snoring heavily. The half-giant jolted awake almost immediately and staggered to the mouth of the cave, and the quartet didn't have to ask why. There had come a great thundering from outside.

They followed Hagrid outside but edged past him in order to get a clearer view of the scene unfolding in the chilly valley below.

At first, all Harry could see was the crowd of giants: monstrously huge, like chunks of the mountain themselves, with ragged and tough-looking hair down their backs and oddly-proportioned bodies. Compared to these giants, Grawp honestly was a good-looking little runt. With some effort, Harry, Ron, and Hermione managed to climb atop a boulder to see over the giants below them, where the action seemed to be taking place. Dumbledore stood next to them, observing silently.

Harry had to stop himself from gasping. There was Chris: months younger and eternities colder. He strode at the front of a small group of hooded black figures, the only one without the dark robes on. His face was clearly the same as the Chris they (somewhat) knew, but if they thought their Chris was guarded in expression, they didn't know the half of it. This younger Chris' face was a complete void; his eyes were distant, almost dead, his expression utterly blank. His whole mien emitted an untraceable coldness. He strode with the air of an untouchable assassin- graceful, yet deadly, in spite of the fact that he wore simple dark jeans and a thin, flowing, knee-length black jacket over a regular black shirt. He walked straight to the center of the giants' activity- the biggest, ugliest giant of the lot. The leader, the Gurg, had risen to his truck-sized feet.

One of the hooded figures that marched with Chris walked ahead a bit, standing between the Gurg and the Halliwell.

"Golgomath, of the Giants," began the hooded figure in a booming voice while Chris locked eyes with the giant. Chris' empty gaze was ungodly unnerving, even causing the Gurgto look uncomfortable. "Introducing Lord Christopher, of the Free World. His majesty the Source is willing to overlook your trespasses if you pledge your allegiance to his cause. Your week to decide- between allies and death- is up. What is your choice?"

TheGurg leered down at the two humans. He said in a throaty growl, surprisingly in something resembling English, "Yer side have leaders, ter be above merself, gert?"

"You need only recognize Lord Wyatt and Lord Christopher as your superiors," said the hooded one. "We will be otherwise as equals."

At this, the Gurg full out sneered. He took a massive step toward Chris and the speaker, both of whom barely came up to the giant's knee. He sneered down at the fifteen year old, who didn't take a single step back though they had less than a foot between them. Chris merely tilted his head to the side a bit, looking up at the Giant, dangerously unimpressed. "Thers litt'l runt?" The Gurg snorted. "HAR! The Gurg bows ter no one!"

Still looking coldly unimpressed, Chris' eyes narrowed. He brought up a hand; then jerked it down sharply, and the Gurg lurched to the ground with it, grasping wildly at his throat as though he couldn't breathe.

Looking directly in the giant's beady eyes, only inches between their noses, Chris said something so softly the observers couldn't hear. The Gurg grunted a low response, looking murderous but still unable to breathe. For a moment, the two merely stared at each other, one glaring foully; one calculating. Then Chris telekinetically shoved the giant out of his face.

Taking this as a sort of signal, the hooded figures turned and strode away from their leader, falling back out of sight, while Chris stood alone and unafraid in the center of the giant camp. Turning his empty eyes to the heavens, the young Halliwell raised his arms began chanting quietly, deliberately, in an alien tongue.

The trio and Dumbledore watched with widened eyes as the winds picked up. The clouds overhead swirled together, pushing against each other in darkening shades until black dominated the visual bottom, lightning crackling ominously in the depths. On the ground, the wind rushed the dirt and stubbly bushes into sweeping whirlwinds, flinging sand into everyone's eyes but Chris', whose eyes slowly began moving back earthwards. Gradually, but still too fast to exactly understand, the wind in the clouds and the whirlwinds on the ground grew, and grew until Harry, Ron, and Hermione had to cling to each other to keep from being torn up into the air. Even Dumbledore had an arm in front of his face, shielding his eyes, his white hair and beard whipping around him. Then, the two opposing forces of nature met. The forces raged, taking on a distinctly new pattern, combined. The pattern, the ferocity, was of a fire; a raging fire.

And the lashing fire moved down with Chris' hands, to the ground. To the living.

"Oh, God," Hermione's exclamation of horror carried with the suddenly scalding wind, and Harry had the feeling she wasn't horrified because of the abrupt increase in temperature that had the three cowering closer together, trying to shield each other from the searing wind. The giants were screaming in terror as the fire rushed toward them.

She threw her head in Ron's shoulder as the first tidal wave of flames made contact with the nearest giants, who dropped to the ground, shrieking in unimaginable agony. The fire incinerated their clothing within a second but began ravishing their bodies with inhumane slowness. Their screams only stopped when their vocal cords burned through, but they lived for several excruciating minutes afterwards; the flames took their time to get through to vital organs.

The second wave erupted when only skeletons remained of the first few. The same fate met the next ones.

"Why aren't they running away?" demanded Ron weakly, face contorted with pain at the grotesque sight.

"He put a barrier around the valley," said Dumbledore quietly as the wind gradually started moving away from their corner and towards the greater masses. "Impenetrable. See the faint blue lining around those mountains over there?" he pointed, but they couldn't see it. They couldn't concentrate to see it, Dumbledore softly explained when they admitted this. The screams of the dying were distracting.

"Can- can we go, now, Pr-Professor?" asked Hermione shakily, her eyes glued on a pair of giants, one of which looked considerably smaller than the rest, the other of which had her arm clung protectively around the small one, as though trying to shield her from the fire that consumed them both. A mother and a daughter. They sobbed as their flesh slowly burned from their bones.

Dumbledore followed her gaze with sad blue eyes; then traced back to Chris', who also stared at the pair. He was no longer directing the path of the fire, but letting it run rampant, devastating without strategy. He stared, almost looking _through_ the mother and daughter, eyes distant. For the first time, the four watchers noticed how pale and thin the fifteen year old murderer looked. He took no joy or pride in their pain, that was certain. But he didn't save them, didn't stop, either.

Dumbledore watched the Halliwell for a long moment, but when nothing new transpired, he sighed and agreed quietly, "Yes, Hermione. We can."

And Harry felt himself rising, rising, until solid ground met his feet and he stumbled backwards in the office. Next to him, Hermione sank onto the floor of the office, legs too weak to even support her to the chairs.

"The portrait behind the Sorting Hat leads to a bathroom," Dumbledore informed Ron heavily, and Ron, face a pale green, gave a curt nod and excused himself.

Harry moved painstakingly back to his chair, shaking, unable to believe everything. Chris had used Dark magic to do it- to kill those innocent people; he had _used_ Dark magic. So Chris didn't just know the Dark Arts through reading, he had performed them. He had used them on others. He had used something Harry doubted even Voldemort would have taken the time to do…. _Lord Christopher _was a cold-blooded killer, and Harry had been his ignorant friend for over three weeks…

"I can't believe it," whispered Hermione, and Harry glanced up to see her staring unseeingly at the unconscious form of Christopher, still lying where Dumbledore had stunned him. It suddenly felt like ages ago that Harry had been in this office, confused as to why Hagrid hated Chris, and why Chris was acting so strange and troubled. It felt like ages ago that he had wanted to resolve whatever problems were between his two 'friends' and move on. Harry didn't know whether he wanted to scoff at himself or rage at someone else. "…I can't believe he was so… so _heartless_…. I mean, _why_…? What was that _about_?" Hermione continued, developing an anguished frown and handing her confusion to Dumbledore. "What was that about? _Lord _Christopher? _Professor_… it doesn't make _sense_."

And Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "It doesn't appear to make sense, no. However, Chris told me, weeks ago, that he had done things in his past… that he wasn't proud of. We can only hope that he's changed his ways permanently…"

"You're not even going to do anything about it?" demanded Harry suddenly, feeling his temper simmering at the idea that Chris would get away with something that warranted a lifelong sentence in Azkaban. He barely even noticed as Ron stumbled back into the office. "Professor, _he killed them_! He _killed_ them- _all _of them! How--?"

"And the guilt has driven him to suicide, Harry," said Dumbledore with an edge, and the statement hit Harry like a kick in the gut. Harry blinked, speechless. He could only stare as Dumbledore sighed and laced his fingers atop his desk. After another moment of stunned silence, Dumbledore continued in a softer tone, "Chris… has tried to take his life for offenses such as that. I don't know if that was the crime he meant when he told me, but I believe it must have been. He looked as if he cared. I don't think a person can live with guilt such as that, when they honestly care… I don't think he _intended_ to live after that…"

"And what makes you think that?" asked Harry bluntly, numbly, still trying to digest everything.

"His eyes," said Dumbledore with a faint smile. "He let his guard down for a moment, and it was clear."

"…I didn't see him show any feeling," said Ron flatly, still a bit green.

For a moment, there was silence as they all thought back. Finally Harry interrupted it.

"You used plural. 'Offences'. So that wasn't the only time he… he killed people?" Asked Harry, trying to maintain a logical grip on the situation. "I mean… you said it in plural… and _Lord_ Christopher…? Professor… what does this all mean?" he ended feebly, helplessly. It just didn't make sense. If he felt so guilty, why did he do it in the first place?

Dumbledore met his gaze with an open honesty. "It means there is more to the story than Chris wants us to know."

Harry asked quietly, "So do you trust him? Even knowing what we do?"

Dumbledore smiled faintly again. "I asked you to keep an eye on him the first time you met, didn't I?"

"_Then why did you force him to come here if he didn't even want to, and you don't trust him?" _demanded Harry, exasperated. This conversation wasn't clearing anything up; it was just creating more questions.

"I want to help him, Harry," said Dumbledore with the same soft smile. "It is as simple as that. I want to help him."

Harry sighed, defeated. He understood why Dumbledore might want to help a lost child, but his methods were just plain nonsensical. He was being his eccentric self again, and Harry no longer knew how to get a straight answer out of him.

Instead of beating a dead horse, Harry dropped the subject, and asked, "So, what now?"

"Now I'd like to see why Chris did that in the first place," answered Dumbledore lightly. Just as Hermione was about to ask how he planned to do that (they all knew what she was going to say as soon as she opened her mouth), he pointed his wand at the unconscious form of Christopher and chanted, "_Ennervate_."

The trio blinked in surprise at Dumbledore's tactics just as Chris' eyelids fluttered open.

"Good afternoon," greeted Dumbledore with a new sobriety. "Are you alright?"

Chris frowned, perplexed, as he slowly sat up. "…Why are you asking?" he asked in a restrained tone, eyes taking in the office swiftly and noticing Hagrid's absence.

Harry noticed the tone and frowned. "Because he thinks you're in bad shape from whatever you were doing last weekend," he answered abruptly before Dumbledore had the chance. Harry still hadn't decided what to think about his suicidal, murdering roommate. He just knew that he didn't want to deal with any of Chris' word games at the moment. "Well?"

"Well, I'm fine," said Chris slowly, giving Harry a strange look. "…From your abruptness, I take it you know what happened… firsthand?"

"Hagrid's memory," supplied Dumbledore, his eyes trained on Harry and Chris. "Now, would you mind explaining to us your side of the story; _why_ you did something like that?"

Chris' frown returned. He gave Dumbledore a look that said all on its own, 'What the hell do _you_ think?'

Dumbledore sighed and prodded, "Chris, we already know what happened. You might as well defend yourself, now, or at least tell us _why_, even if it is no valid excuse."

"No."

Harry tried convincing him. Hermione and Ron tried. However, all they could get out of him was, "It's _none of your business_. Anyway, nothing is going to make up for it, so there's no point in even talking about it."

They tried every angle. Nothing else was gotten from Chris except various blunt repetitions and heightened coldness. Finally, silence settled on the occupants of the room, but it was only like a thin blanket, barely covering the tense emotions which riled beneath the surface.

At length, Harry asked quietly, flatly, "Did you try to kill yourself afterwards?"

Chris stared at him. "_What_?"

"It was a simple question."

Chris gave him a look that Harry didn't quite understand. Was that… shame? No, suppressed rage, maybe? Exasperation? Chris spoke heatedly, interrupting Harry's musing. "What does it matter? What does _any_ of it matter? I didn't do any of it because I _wanted_ to, so there's _nothing_ to say."

"You didn't answer me."

"And I'm not going to, because _nothing_ about _any_ of this is any of your concern."

"Then I'll find out, one way or another," said Harry, perfectly serious. He did with every mystery, every year. Chris' doings couldn't be harder to uncover than Voldemort's.

Chris watched him for a moment, seemingly sizing him up; then he sighed. "Harry, I normally love a good challenge- I _really do_- but I'm serious. Don't try to pry into this. It will only end in misery and suffering- and not just for you. This thing, it's bigger than you could ever imagine."

"I can handle whatever you tell me or whatever I find out on my own," said Harry resolutely.

Chris rolled his eyes and gave a frustrated sigh. "You know what? Fine. Have it your way; pry. But you're not going to get anywhere."

Dumbledore spoke unexpectedly, "Well, then! It looks like we have a contest! May I just ask that both Wizarding and Wiccan worlds have their respective saviors alive and with a semblance of sanity at the conclusion of this historical battle of wits?" he asked pleasantly, looking at Chris out of the corner of his eye.

Chris gave him a contemptuous once-over. "Who the hell do you think you're calling a savior?"

"You don't ever answer the question asked, do you?" said Dumbledore musingly.

Chris rolled his eyes, got to his feet, and walked right through the door without leaving a mark.

The four stared after him for a moment.

Ron finally asked weakly, "Er… Harry? Do you really think it's smart to, er, provoke him? I mean… if you really piss him off…" he let the sentence trail off ominously.

Harry frowned thoughtfully. He had faced Voldemort, had he not? He had survived time and time again… He had discovered some of Voldemort's most coveted secrets like the Chamber of Secrets, the plot to get the Sorcerer's Stone, the scheme to use him to get the prophecy…. Harry could handle a kid his own age.

But the thought of taking on Chris as an enemy sent chills down his spine, and not just since they had seen the memory with the giants.

"Be careful, you three," Dumbledore's quiet voice broke through his thoughts. "He's had a rough life, and he cares more than he'll let you know. Try to talk to him; don't try to tear him apart."

"You keep saying that," said Hermione in a numb tone. "'He's had a rough life.' What does that mean? What aren't you telling us?"

Dumbledore smiled sagely. "My advise? Start with his history with Professor Snape. I believe there's much to be found in that area."

Harry gave Dumbledore a curious look. "Are you going to participate in this year's mystery or just sit back and watch?"

Dumbledore continued smiling, trying to look innocent. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Potter…"

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris strode down the hall, pushing back a rushing sense of anger and guilt into the back of his mind. He couldn't believe they had seen that. How much exactly had they seen? It had to have been from the half-giant's-- _Hagrid's_ point of view, because he doubted Dumbledore would have been able to steal a memory from Chris without him knowing about it.

Hagrid didn't know why Chris had done it, so they didn't know that part. …And Chris had knocked Hagrid unconscious about half-way through the ordeal when the half-giant had tried to knock him out with a tree… Chris had seen no need to kill the half-giant because he was clearly only _half_ giant, and he wouldn't kill anymore than absolutely necessary.

Chris let out a heavy sigh and pulled himself up onto the nearest windowpane in the deserted corridor surrounding the library, because no one every came around the library on the weekend, he presumed.

He let his forehead fall against the chilly glass, simply staring out at the Forbidden Forest and letting his burning thoughts cool with the stained glass. He didn't know what he was going to do when he would finally have to get up. But for the moment, he could just watch the trees sway with the rising wind.

Hagrid's cabin was in view, right in front of the forest.

Chris looked away slowly, feeling a sickening, moldy, repugnant hand wrap equally grotesque fingers around his stomach, curling them into a fist. He swallowed hard, nausea rolling over him. Sluggish guilt burned and boiled within his gut. None of it was new.

Swallowing again, he let himself fall off the windowsill and landed on his feet with barely a noise. He felt even sicker when he recalled the cousin closest to his age (only three years younger) calling him Kitty, because she claimed he would land on his feet no matter what. '…Even if the world is turned upside down.'

Chris was glad she never lived to see exactly how upside down the world had turned. Maybe he shouldn't have rolled his eyes when he first heard her childish explanation. And maybe it wasn't as childish as he had thought.

He sighed softly, watching the ground as he walked. He missed them. All of them. So much…

Orb lights.

Chris glanced up in time to see a man with mid-length black hair and youthful gray eyes appear behind him then bound forward to catch up. He rolled his eyes and kept walking. He recognized the man as one of Lily and James' friends.

"Hey," the man greeted brightly, seemingly unaware of the coldness radiating from Chris. "You're Chris, right?"

"No."

"…Yes, you are."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"What else was I supposed to say to start the conversation?"

"What were you going to say after I supposedly replied with a yes?"

"…Touché," conceded the man, looking mildly impressed. "I'm Sirius. A friend of James and Lily's."

"I know."

"You're very rude, you know," stated Sirius dismissively as he looked around the halls with warmth in his eyes.

"So I've been told. Did you want something specific or are you just bored?"

"Um… little of both. Do you know anything about a demon called Nivessel? I've been looking for information about him for, like, a month, now."

"The guy leading a rebellion in the Underworld, trying to overthrow the new Source? Tall, dark complexion, kinda dumb looking?"

"That's the one!" exclaimed Sirius, too cheerfully for Chris to really believe a bit of it.

"Never heard of him."

…

Sirius stared at him. This conversation wasn't going exactly as he had planned. They were supposed to introduce themselves; then Sirius would crack the code Lily had been trying to figure out, all within five minutes. He should have thought back on how many times he had actually outdone Lily, and then promptly reconsidered his plan of action.

Then the kid smirked and said, "I vanquished him last week. The Elders must not like you if they'd send you looking for information on a harmless idiot like him. He was a total waste of time."

And Sirius could only stare at him.

* * *

**A/N: Please review!**


	16. Of the Investigation

**Disclaimer:**** I don't own Harry Potter or Charmed. Don't sue me.**

Sirius left not long after that, making some lame excuse about needing to tell the Elders Nivessel's fate, even if they didn't really care about the demon. The kid had freaked him out. He was nothing like Harry or Ron or Hermione or any of the Weasley kids, or any of the kids he had known growing up… Chris was just weird. It wasn't just the strange sense of humor and sarcasm- Sirius himself had been the sarcastic one of the Marauders, even though Chris' particular kind could put his to shame- it was the way the kid's eyes just seemed to look straight into him. His eyes just didn't belong to a sixteen year old. They were too old, too _knowing_. It made Sirius extremely uncomfortable.

So Sirius orbed out to regroup with James.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry, Ron, and Hermione met in the Common Room frequently, now, to discuss their investigation. Chris, seeming to know what they were doing, conveniently left the Gryffindor tower just before those times, even after curfew. He was being oddly casual about their open pursuit of his history and continued speaking to them like nothing was going on, and for that Harry was secretly grateful. Chris could be fun company when they weren't prying. It was just times like those that made Harry's stomach squirm wondering what he would do if he found out Chris was an evil bastard playing them all like marionettes. Honestly, he didn't want to be right about Chris being evil. Harry just needed to _know_.

"So, I was looking for some more books about the Halliwells, and they're all checked out. You'll never guess by who," Hermione said as soon as the portrait hole slid shut behind Chris. When Harry and Ron merely raised eyebrows, Hermione finished, "_Dumbledore_. Madam Pince said he checked them out _weeks_ ago. You think he'd let you borrow them if you asked, Harry?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. Even though Dumbledore did seem open to helping him, asking directly didn't seem right. He had the feeling Dumbledore wanted him to figure it out on his own. Something about the journey being more important than the destination, or whatever. So Harry shrugged. "I dunno, Hermione. What do you know already? I mean, you knew right off the bat who the Charmed Ones were in Slughorn's class…"

Hermione blushed faintly, Harry thought. It was hard to tell in the dim firelight. "_In the Heart of A Charmed One_," she conceded, mumbling slightly. "It was written by Phoebe Halliwell about her love life- which was really interesting. I mean, she dated mortals, including her boss at one point, and a demon, who became a human, who became the Source of all Evil (a different one than this blond guy, now), who made her the Queen of the Underworld, who she had to kill when she turned back to good--"

"Yeah, yeah, we get it," said Ron grouchily. "Fascinating. Anything about her nephew?"

"…Not _really_," said Hermione after a thoughtful pause. "I mean, it did mention that her sister Piper got married before she did, and it talked about some of the stuff the Charmed Ones had to go through- mostly the various demon emergencies that took her away from her social life- but it was about her life, not her sisters'. I just read it because I'd heard of the Charmed Ones in a historical encyclopedia, and a book written by a Charmed One herself seemed fascinating…" she ended with a shrug.

Harry nodded pensively. "I suppose that's where Chris got his writing skills from, then? Remember that time in McGonagall's class-"

"-when he handed her the paper and said, 'It's completely wrong, but you have to read it anyway, because my answer are _really_ creative.' That was _great_," Ron chuckled along with Harry.

Hermione frowned unhappily. "He could have asked me for help if he didn't understand about wand movement elegance…"

"I really don't think Chris cares about his grades, Hermione," Harry pointed out, amused. "Anyways, what are we going to do about talking to Snape? Or Malfoy, even. I mean, it's been a week and we've gotten nowhere…"

"We could tie them down and threaten to poison them," offered Ron.

"We could get Snape to get a rise out of Chris in class and see if one of them slips up when they're angry," said Hermione.

Harry nodded at that one and added half-heartedly, "Since Chris hasn't really gotten control over that memory-projection power, yet, we could just send a dementor after him and see what memories come up…"

"Harry," Hermione said tightly. "Don't joke like that."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

The trio, having reached no definite plan over the next week, resolved to merely continue watching for more clues. The week was just about the same as it ever was.

"Have you noticed that Chris seems to have a relationship with every professor?" Hermione observed at breakfast one morning before Chris arrived. He was usually the last one down, but they never saw him in the tower in the morning, and they certainly never found him asleep. They had already had a musing discussion about where he might be in those in-between night and breakfast hours. "I mean, Parvati was telling me just last night that he and _Professor Binns_ got in an argument in History of Magic, and I don't think Professor Binns has ever said more than a few words to a living student before…"

Ron choked on his pumpkin juice in surprise and demanded in a strangled voice, "How do you argue in a _history_ class? Why was Chris even _listening_?"

Hermione looked mildly offended and sniffed, "Chris enjoys that class. He thinks it's fascinating how many of the same events are remembered in the Wicca world. Anyway, the lesson was on the development of western magic, and they got in an argument about whether Wicca witches got magic by trading their souls to Satan. From what Parvati said, it was a very impressive debate with not just a little sarcasm…"

"Sarcasm? Not talking about _me_, surely?" said Chris absently as he took a seat across from Hermione. "Have you seen my book for Herbology? I can't find it anywhere…" He glanced up at the staff table where only McGonagall and Flitwick sat while Harry and Hermione replied in the negative. Ron was too busy stuffing his face to grace Chris with a response. Chris' expression didn't change as he concluded with an, "Ah, well…"

"Wha'cha looking at?" Harry asked, looking up to the staff table as well.

Chris looked back to the trio dismissively. "Nothin'. Just staring."

He then proceeded to look at his pumpkin juice, his hands underneath the table. It turned into coffee of its own accord. He beamed at the accomplishment but didn't pick it up, then turned his eyes back to the staff table.

Wondering why Chris hadn't reached his hands above the table to get his precious coffee, Harry leaned over to look under the table and found several metal screws sitting in Chris' hand, a few more flying in as he watched. _Telekinetically_. Harry sat up, bemused, but chose not to comment on it just yet.

"Sprout's not going to be happy you lost that book. She's been asking us to look up ingredients more and more. She's getting more serious everyday," Hermione was saying conversationally and Chris replied with an indifferent 'eh.'

They all looked to the doors as Snape and the Headmaster entered, both talking with rather polite looks. Chris stood up, and Harry saw him slip the screws into a pocket. The caffeine addict picked up his coffee, and it transformed into a thermos. He walked out, and Harry saw him and Snape briefly catch eyes as they passed.

He frowned thoughtfully and turned to tell Ron and Hermione about the screws when Snape and Dumbledore reached the staff table. As he opened his mouth, Snape sat down in his chair and there was a resounding crash.

They looked up to find Snape splayed among various chair pieces with Dumbledore concealing his mouth with a hand to muffle his laughter.

"_There were no screws in this chair, Albus_!"

Hermione, mouth open with shock, looked from the staff table to Harry's face, which was quickly reddening with mirth, and her eyes widened in understanding. "He _didn't_…!"

…

The next time they were able to evaluate Chris' relationships with the professors was in McGonagall's class, their first period together on Thursdays.

McGonagall assigned them practice in turning clocks into wristwatches, and she usually gave Chris the night's homework to do since they had discussed why he couldn't write spells for personal gain. Today, she told him to occupy his time however he wanted, since she would only assign practice for homework.

So he stared found an interest in her ceiling. "You have 17 holes in your ceiling, all the same size and shape. Why?"

She glanced up as well, thoughtful. "I don't know. I think the headmaster does these weird little things sometimes to see who notices."

Chris smirked. "Sounds like something he'd do." Silence. Then, "The one right over there is more oval than the others. I'm naming it Jim."

McGonagall looked over at the hole, then back at Chris, looking faintly amused. "Professor Dumbledore would be so proud."

"Mm. Do you know how to play BS? It would help with your poker face."

McGonagall rolled her eyes. "My poker face isn't _that_ bad. You're the only one who called it."

Chris raised his eyebrows, then shrugged dismissively. "Okay, even if it's not that absolutely terrible, BS is still a good game. I think Sibyl might actually be decent at it."

"I doubt it," said McGonagall with a slight smirk. "So what does BS stand for?"

"Bullshit. The object is to get all the cards in your hand gone by putting them out face down when it's your turn. You lay down the next card in order from the person before you did, and if someone doesn't believe it's the right card, they say, 'BS' or 'Bullshit' or 'Cheat' or whatever, and you have to turn over the card. If you weren't lying, the person that challenged it has to take all the cards…"

"I'll give it a try later. It's not very appropriate for a classroom and a teacher to be playing, is it?"

Chris shrugged. "Alright, then."

He pulled a book out and began reading.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared looks. Poker? Sibyl? When had Chris been playing cards with Professors McGonagall and Sibyl Trelawney? And why on earth had he named a hole in the ceiling?

After class was over, Harry asked him such and, surprisingly, Chris answered.

"At night. Since I only sleep, like, twice a week, I started going to play cards with Sibyl Trelawney since she has, like, a thousand decks for fortune telling. Then McGonagall came to see what the noise was when she was patrolling one night and she admitted she hadn't played a game of Texas Hold'em in years… then Dumbledore must have, like, a sixth sense for anything interesting happening, so he came by and joined in… So we play cards every few nights."

"That's really weird, mate," said Ron after a moment as he shook his head. "I can't imagine playing poker with McGonagall. What on earth do you _bet_?"

Chris shrugged. "Random stuff. Like, remember about a week ago when Dumbledore started singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star every time someone asked him a question? He's wasn't just trying to be annoying."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at him. Chris smiled pleasantly at their obvious mystification and continued walking.

The next class, Herbology, they also had together. They were all four pretty mediocre in the subject, although Chris and Hermione could identify the plants more quickly than most.

"Hogsmeade is this weekend," Hermione commented offhand as she, Harry, and Ron packed dirt around paper-eating flowers. She passed Ron a spray bottle as she continued, "I heard Dean asking Parvati out as soon as he saw the bulletin. It was sweet…"

"Hm," Ron grunted as he accepted the spray bottle and began squirting it into the dusty soil.

"What's Hogsmeade?" Chris asked as he passed by them to get more soil.

"It's a magical village about a mile from the school. Third years and above can get permission to go on certain weekends," said Hermione rather huffily as she took the spray bottle back from Ron even though he wasn't done. "It's got places like bookstores, joke shops, candy shops, a haunted shack, pubs…"

"…That sounds really familiar," mused Chris, frowning slightly as though trying to remember something from long ago. "Maybe I'll see."

"You'll need a guardian to sign a permission form," Harry pointed out, watching Chris closely for a reaction.

Chris shrugged, face masked completely of authentic emotion. "I don't think Dumbledore will hold it against me."

"Filch will, if McGonagall doesn't," grumbled Ron as he watched Hermione acting angry, then demanded of her, "_What's your problem this time_?"

Harry rolled his eyes as they began to bicker. Remembering how Chris' mother had died, Harry then asked, "Is one of your aunts your guardian? You seemed pretty close to them in the memories I've seen."

Chris shrugged again. "I really don't think Dumbledore will care, and he kind of controls Filch and McGonagall, doesn't he?"

"Why won't Dumbledore care? He's probably got some quick and easy way to contact America if that's the issue…"

"It's not."

"So who's your guardian, if distance isn't the issue with them?"

"…You've got a seriously emo flower, Harry. It's giving itself paper cuts as we speak."

Harry swore as he turned around to find that his flower had sawed itself in half with its own food. He swore again when he saw Chris go back across the classroom, ending that attempt at conversation, too.

"Hey!" he called out as an afterthought, and Chris turned around, raising an eyebrow. "What's 'emo'?"

A slow smile tugged at Chris' lips, but he just turned and kept walking. Harry frowned; then asked Hermione. She shrugged and went back to being mad at Ron.

Harry sighed, wondering what would happen if Ron and Hermione actually got together. Hopefully it wouldn't constantly be like _this_. He amused himself for a moment with the thought of their possible children with flaming red hair, running around carrying books and yelling at each other to use correct grammar. He chuckled to himself when, suddenly, a new thought struck him.

Chris' dad was a guardian angel. Angels couldn't die, because they were already dead, right? So Chris' father was still around somewhere.

But Chris said distance wasn't the issue… So what _was_ the problem?

Harry glanced over at the other table where Chris and Neville were working together. They seemed perfectly fine in each other's company; Neville was even trying to persuade Chris to roll up his sleeves so he wouldn't get dirt all over his jacket, and Chris wasn't snapping at him at all. He did still firmly refuse, though.

Harry watched them for a second more, just thinking. He couldn't help but wonder whether Chris had ever let _anyone_ get to know him. And he couldn't help but wonder- just- _why_?

The next class, Potions with Professor Slughorn, was a bit more interesting. Not much in Harry's opinion, but a bit.

Professor Slughorn always left the classroom door open; probably to let the steam from all the potions escape and not suffocate the students and teacher. Today, however, third years were wandering the halls, all discussing what their first Hogsmeade trip would be like, and loudly.

"Mr. Zabini, could you close the door? I hardly think a single one of you can concentrate with that racket."

"Yes, we can," Chris inserted dismissively, and Zabini shrugged and sat back down without closing the door.

"I'm sure you could concentrate with half the school blowing up," chuckled Slughorn good-humouredly. "But I can hardly hear my own thoughts with that commotion, so Mr. Zabini, if you would, please…"

Zabini heaved an exaggerated sigh, got up again, and closed the door. There was silence. Harry glanced over at Chris and was almost surprised to find him staring at his boiling potion, face almost a full shade paler than usual and completely expressionless.

Harry frowned, slightly concerned, but more confused than anything.

"Professor?" asked Hermione suddenly. "Do you think I could, um, try a spell I've been reading about? It's one to create a realistic window in underground settings. I heard about the Ministry using them in some of its lower floors and I thought…"

"Why, of course, my dear!" exclaimed Slughorn jovially. "Do not let anyone say I would stand in the way of education! I, in fact, am a friend of the witch who came up with that idea for the Ministry… Conditions were awfully oppressive before that, I've heard…" he continued in his reminiscent way, but Harry was more interested in the look Chris and Hermione shared so briefly before the latter got up and went over to the wall closet to the former.

Hermione considered the wall for a mere second before raising her wand and sweeping it into a wide, fluid motion with the exclamation of, "_Grund Avisia Evaset_!"

A tall, beautiful window spilt onto the wall, and outside of it they could see the castle's lake and Quidditch pitch in the distance as though they weren't underground at all.

The class oo-ed and ah-ed appreciatively, and Hermione stowed her wand back in her robes with a slightly satisfied air. While Slughorn went off about how gorgeous a job it was, Hermione took her place back between Chris and Harry.

"You're claustrophobic," she said softly so that only Chris and Harry heard.

Harry had to lean over to look past Hermione and see Chris' reaction, and it was to manage a tight smile. "Is it that obvious?"

"That's why you always stay near the windows in rooms?"

"…It is."

There was silence, then Hermione breathed quietly, "Wow. That's… really strange. -For someone like _you_, I mean. --I mean--" she broke off, flushing in embarrassment and looking flustered.

"Yeah, yeah. I get it," Chris dismissively saved her from floundering. "O mighty Halliwell, afraid of closets. It's strange; I know."

Hermione, still scarlet in the face, nodded shortly and busied herself over her cauldron.

"Doesn't that create a lot of, you know, problems?" asked Ron curiously. "I mean, a lot of bathrooms don't have windows or anything…"

Chris gave Ron a Look. "You know," he said completely expressionlessly, "I think I can tough it out long enough to take a pi-"

Hermione coughed loudly and Chris broke off. He glanced over at her and smiled slightly at her embarrassed expression. Harry watched as Chris' eyes softened almost indeterminably, and Chris' eyes moved to the window, then back to Hermione.

"Hey, Hermione?" Chris said. When Hermione glanced up, obviously prepared for some other form of sarcasm or teasing, he finished simply, "Thanks."

Hermione blinked in mild surprise; then returned, "Um… you're welcome."

And they went back to their work.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"Well, now we know what we need to do if we ever need to interrogate him under harsh circumstances," noted Harry at the trio's next night-time meeting in the common room. "Just lock him in a room without a window and wait for him to crack."

"Harry," scolded Hermione, glaring. "Claustrophobia is a serious deal to those people. That's mean."

Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. "Hermione, we _have_ no civil ideas. We're going to have to pick something soon. It wouldn't help us very much if we took all year to figure him out, would it? By that time we could all be dead!"

Hermione glared, and Harry instantly felt himself deflate a little. "We're just going to have to _ask_ Snape," she concluded stonily and nodded dismissively at the boys' outraged cries. "I know, I don't want to either, but we need to get whatever information he has. I mean, look at it this way: he hates Chris, doesn't he? So he might cooperate just because he thinks it's against Chris. It's worth a shot."

Harry and Ron shared skeptical looks. Harry could easily see the way she was thinking, but Snape also hated _them_, so he might just hold back the information to do something against them, too. He explained the flipside of her theory and she smiled unhappily.

"Then I guess it depends on who he hates more, doesn't it?"

Harry gave her another look. "He's hated me since my dad was born. Who do you _think_ he hates more?"

"Well, you can ask him that when you ask what he's got on Chris."

"…Me?"

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

So it was Friday when Harry approached Snape after another dismal class. Today they had learned the effects of trying to fight an invisible drunken leprechaun and had discovered the results were less funny than it sounded. Harry wondered in the back of his mind if there was a section on this in the book or whether Snape was speaking from experience. He vowed to ask Hermione if he lived through the rest of the day without being murdered by his DADA professor.

Snape's dark, tunnel-like eyes narrowed suspiciously as the three approached, and Harry could feel Chris' eyes briefly look on them as well as he walked out the door.

Harry took a deep breath before meeting Snape's eyes with a steeled resolve. Unconsciously, he used that steeled determination to form a wall in his mind, and therefore didn't recognize the new appraising look that entered Snape's eyes as they met.

"Potter," said Snape smoothly.

"Professor," Harry returned, then stated blunted, "I wanted to ask you what you could tell us about Chris. You seem to know each other…"

Snape's lips twitched in a silky smile. "Ah, yes… Professor Dumbledore did mention your little… _contest_." He sneered. "You're in over your head, Potter."

"I've fought the 'Dark Lord', haven't I?" Harry shot back, feeling a tinge of anger at being told Chris was over him yet again.

"I don't believe the Dark Lord is a hormonal teenaged _Gryffindor_."

"Are you going to help us or not, _sir_?" Harry asked in clipped tones, impatient. "I mean, can you even tell us if he's dangerous?"

"Dangerous?" scoffed Snape quietly. "A Muggle child with a _match_ can be dangerous, Potter. Of course he is."

"Professor, you know what I mean," Harry said with a slight scowl as he forced himself to be civil. Snape still had the power to give him detentions or take away house points. "Couldn't you tell us from where you know him, or even why you thought him teaching me Occlumency was funny? We _know_ you've got history- he flung you through a door the first time he saw you!"

"I didn't deny that we have a bit of history," murmured Snape with a slightly dangerous glint in his eye at the mention of the door incident. "And I did not ever imply that his teaching you Occlumency was humorous, Mr. Potter. I merely thought it was interesting, as I have seen Christopher best even the Dark Lord whilst you have no ability whatsoever."

"He's beaten Volde-- the Dark Lord before?" asked Harry in a rush.

Snape gave him a contemptuous once-over at his naked enthusiasm. "He has," he replied softly. "Until that point, I had never known a mental battle could get physically bloody. They ended up putting each other into brief comas…. I do not expect you to spread that news around, you understand," Snape ended severely, and Harry wondered why Snape was telling them this information at all. He pressed on before his luck ended.

"So he was never a Death Eater?"

Snape smirked. "You honestly thought that conceited brat would bow down to _anyone_?"

"He's got a point…" muttered Ron, not looking directly at Snape.

Harry nodded. "So why do you hate each other?" he inquired of the professor, who was now leaning casually against his desk.

"That would be Christopher's story to tell, if he ever loses his mind and decides to confide in you. So, if that's all of this little interrogation…" Snape gave them a scowl that let them know it _was_ the end of the interrogation.

"Yes, professor, we're leaving now," said Hermione quickly, taking Harry and Ron by the arms and leading them towards the door.

"One last question," interrupted Harry, halting Hermione. "Why did you tell us that?"

"You will address me as 'sir', Potter, even outside of class time," said Snape with that dangerous edge. After Harry apologized, he actually answered. With a finger tracing his lip, he mused, "It intrigues me that you would even pursue Christopher's history against his will. He's so far ahead of you; if I want any amusement from your loss… you have to actually get started. Now get to class before I give you all a week's worth of detentions for interrupting my planning period."

They hurried away.

"Well, that got us bloody nowhere," Ron grumbled.

"Yeah, it did," said Harry, his mind churning over the new information. "Now we know he was never a Death Eater."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"So who signed your permission form?" asked Hermione curiously as she, Harry, Ron, and Chris headed out for Hogsmeade.

"Dumbledore," Chris returned simply.

"You didn't want to talk to your family so much you convinced the _headmaster_ to sign it himself?" Harry gaped, unable to believe Chris had actually done it.

Chris shot him a filthy look. "No one said anything about my family, but there you went, anyway… Can't leave it the hell alone…" but his eyes twinkled slightly and Harry knew he wasn't too angry.

"You know, Dumbledore might _actually_ be your father, for all we know. You've got that exact same twinkle in your eyes, I'm telling you…"

The twinkle vanished as Chris scowled.

A few minutes passed in silence as they walked. Harry mused on how nice a day it was. The October visit was usually the only one that didn't require a thick cloak and gloves. He loosed his cloak's fast around his neck to better appreciate the temperature and smiled when he saw Hogsmeade in clear sight. "Well…" he began, turning to see Chris' first reaction to the quaint little Wizarding town.

Chris blinked at it curiously and said the last thing Harry had expected.

"I think I know who your whitelighter was."

* * *

**A/N: Please review!**


	17. Of Deceased Halliwells

**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing. Well... a **_**few**_** things... but not this.**

**Chapter 17: Of Deceased Halliwells**

"_I think I know who your whitelighter was."_

Harry blinked. "Say what?"

"I've been here before with my whitelighter. She always said she was checking on another charge…" his voice drifted off as he stared into space.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared perplexed looks. When Harry looked confused about what to say, Chris asked, "Does the name Prue Halliwell sound familiar?"

"Halliwell…?"

"My aunt. She died before I was born," Chris elaborated, now watching Harry's face for the vaguest sign of recognition.

"Um… actually, no. Not really," said Harry after a moment of racking his brain for any familiarity.

"…How about Prudence Trudeau?"

And Harry's eyes widened like saucers. "Oh yeah. Was she kind of short, black hair, pretty eyes? Gray, or blue, I think…"

"Yeah," Chris murmured, looking like he was still trying to connect some dots. "How did you know…?"

"She was the art teacher at the Muggle school I went to," said Harry quickly, eager to find out more about his old teacher and how she had been his whitelighter for years without him knowing it. And then, "Holy… I… I think I remember you! You would be in that class about twice a year, every year… and you hardly ever talked, which was something memorable in that loud class… She always told us you were her American nephew, staying with her for whatever holiday was closest… But she didn't have an American accent, herself…"

Chris snorted. "Because the English accent isn't the easiest one to fake or anything… You were that kid with the broken glasses that always looked swamped in those huge clothes?"

Harry grimaced. "Yeah."

"…I remember asking Prue why she didn't beat up the people that broke your glasses," Chris admitted with a wry grin. "She told me I was welcome to if I wanted, but she wasn't allowed to interfere. Isn't that weird?"

"The thought of you and Harry as little kids?" interjected Ron. "Downright _creepy_."

"I'll have you know I was a cute little kid," said Chris glaring. Again, his eyes twinkled. Then he got a little bit more serious. "Do you remember her doing anything odd? Like jumping in front of a car or something to save your life? Anything of that sort?"

Harry gave him the 'what do you think?' look. "Honestly, all I remember is that she was really nice to me, and she left the class quite often to use the restroom…"

"That would be her cover story for orbing out to save me or something. I called her a lot." He paused to smile. "I never thought what a retard that would have made her look like, running out to use the bathroom every other day…" he chuckled but it trailed off rather quickly. Harry noticed his eyes seemed like he had gone a thousand miles away. Maybe he had. But it didn't look like that place was a pleasant place to be. And then Harry remembered his first sentence starting the conversation. "You said you knew who my whitelighter _was_. So… she's not anymore?"

Chris' eyes moved almost reluctantly to Harry's direction. Slowly, he shook his head once. Harry frowned in puzzlement. "Why… not?"

Chris' eyes flicked away. "She… died. Again. But she didn't come back this time."

Harry's mouth opened slightly. He didn't know what to say. It was obvious that no matter how much Harry liked Mrs. Trudeau because she was the only nice adult he'd ever met, she meant a lot more to Chris. She was his aunt, for heaven's sake. "I'm… I'm sorry," he said at length, and he meant it.

Chris barely nodded to acknowledge the comment. "…She came here every year since I- _we_ were eleven, and she'd always look for you among all the students when we got to be thirteen, you know."

"I didn't know that," Harry conceded, watching Chris' closed expression curiously. He couldn't make anything out. "So you guys were close?"

Again, Chris gave a brief nod, then mused, "I wonder who your new whitelighter is. If the Elders decided to get a sense of humor with yours, too, I might have to kill them."

"WHAT?" all three exclaimed at once then blushed when Chris raised an eyebrow. Harry broke the awkward silence by asking the simplest question he could think of.

"Who are the Elders?"

Chris, still looking at him kind of odd, said, "They're the bosses of the whitelighters…. They assign them to the charges and give them all the information they need to help in a situation. They're supposed to be this 'ultimate good,' but I've never seen that particular quality, if you ask me…" he ended in a mumble.

"So they assigned me a new whitelighter after Mrs. Trudeau… er… yeah? Could you find out who?" Harry questioned, once again eager.

Chris shrugged. "Sure. Hang on a sec. _John_!" He waited a moment, then commanded again, "_John Roberts, get down here for a minute_!"

There was another pause, then Harry had to suppress a jump of surprise as a man materialized out of pure blue and white spheres of light.

The man was rather short with long shaggy brown hair and a full moustache, and he was wearing a golden gown. He looked annoyed. "What do you want, Chris? I was at a meeting with the other Elders, so I don't have all day."

Chris rolled his eyes. "If it's a meeting like all the others, then yes, you do have all day. But let's not get started on Elder-meetings. Do you know Harry Potter?" he motioned to Harry, who waved uncertainly.

"Hi."

"Everyone knows Harry Potter," John replied, rolling his eyes but shaking Harry's hand, nonetheless, and commenting, "How ya doing? Good? That's great." He turned back to Chris. "So?"

"Who's his whitelighter?"

John gave him an even look. "Chris, you know that's confidential. Is that all you wanted? I would have thought you'd ask about the trial."

Chris rolled his eyes, "When have I ever cared about your trials? Now, back to--"

"Well, I thought you'd care about this trials since it _is_ about your whitelighter. Aren't you even a little curious how it'll turn out?" He raised an eyebrow at Chris.

"My whitelighter?" he asked blankly, and Harry knew that he was genuinely caught off guard, even if it barely showed. "Why is my whitelighter on trial?"

"…You mean she didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what? …John?" he added when John shifted uncertainly on his feet. "Tell me what?"

"…Er… She… er… thinks it might be best… if… er…"

"Spit it out," said Chris, glaring, but now Harry was certain of a strange tightness to his voice.

"She thinks you need another whitelighter because she can't keep dealing with your attitude," John blurt out, then winced as though expecting to be blown to bits by the alluded charge. He opened an eye when nothing happened. "Uh… did you hear me, Chris?"

Chris shrugged, unconcerned but not quite meeting John's eyes. "Yeah. Whatever. It's not like I can blame her. So, back to Harry's whitelighter…"

John gave him a deadpanned even look. "Chris."

Chris returned the even look. "John, Prue used to be his whitelighter, too. I think since you guys screwed that up for him, he at least has a right to know who he's stuck with, now. Don't you think that's fair? I think that's fair."

John sighed. "Chris, Prue… that wasn't our choice. You _know_ we had no choice-"

"Oh, so there _was_ someone using Dark magic and forcing you to do that," said Chris with exaggerated politeness and comprehension. "You see, I was wondering whether it might be something like that…"

"Don't be a smart ass, kid," said John as he heaved a sigh. "I didn't like it anymore than you did. There's no use talking about it, now, though."

"If I seem to recall correctly, I _was_ the only one who didn't like it, but you're right. Let's _not_ talk about it," Chris returned with the same pseudo politeness, then flipped back to seriousness like flipping a light switch. "So, just tell me who's his new whitelighter. There's no need to argue it, man. He's going to find out eventually, anyway."

John gave him an unenthusiastic look. "Chris… why you always gotta put me in these situations?" When Chris didn't answer, he sighed yet again. "Fine. We convinced Penny to take some time off out of her afterlife to watch him. She's just staying Up There for now, figuring out what's normal for him before she interrupts with one of her usual dramatic introductions…"

"Wait- Penny as in _Grams_?!" Chris exclaimed, genuine surprise and horror flashing across his features.

John grimaced. "We figured desperate times called for… yeah. Grams. Well, at least we know the kid'll win his war now, if Penny doesn't fight him for a chance to take on the Dark Lord herself…"

"Hello," Harry interrupted, feeling his confusion reach a climax. "Someone stop a minute and tell me who this 'Penny' is!"

"Penny Halliwell," said John fairly quickly. "Chris' great grandmother. She's a regular loaded pistol, if you catch my drift."

"More like, she's an insane, psychotic, mean, ball-busting, grenade tossing, motherfu-" Chris muttered under his breath before finally being stopped by a glare from John. He rolled his eyes and told Harry quite frankly, "She hates men. She'd take on Voldemort for that reason alone."

"Don't you think you're exaggerating just a li--" began John.

"No."

"Chris…"

"John. That's all we wanted to know. Thanks."

"You know you got your generally fiery attitude from her, right?"

"Shut up."

John chuckled. "See ya, kid."

"Aren't you supposed to say, 'Blessed be?'" Chris grumbled good-naturedly.

"Why, when we both know you're a lost cause?" quipped John. "Which reminds me… Got a message for your father, while I'm going to be there, anyway?"

"Me being a lost cause reminded you of my father?" grumbled Chris. "Thanks. Can you tell him I'm dead?"

John smiled wryly. "What do I say if he asks how you died?"

Chris pondered this while the trio watched with mouths opened. "If I died heroically or something like that, he'd just call me an idiot… Say I fell down some stairs or something and broke my neck. Then he'd be really embarrassed for being related to me."

John chuckled. "What about if he wants to go to the funeral?"

"Tell him he already missed it."

John chuckled again. "Got it. Later, bro."

"Peace, man."

And the 'Elder' did the light thing and disappeared. Harry stared, then turned his attention to Chris.

"What the bloody hell was _that_?"

Chris shrugged. "We have a weird relationship."

"So your man-hating great grandmother is my guardian angel?" repeated Harry, still unable to get his head around all this information. "And you really hate your father, even though you can get in touch with him, and my old art teacher was my whitelighter _and_ your aunt, AND we saw each other as children. And what happened to Mrs. Trudeau that you would be so mad at her bosses about?"

Chris arched an eyebrow. "Don't have a hernia, man."

Harry stared at him. "Aren't you surprised about _any_ of this?"

Chris blinked. "Yes. I was. And now I'm over it. Seriously. Let's go to the Three Broomsticks. Rosmerta's always fun to talk to."

The three stared at him.

"You're unbelievable, you know that?" said Harry weakly.

Chris shrugged. "Yeah, whatever you say. Can we go now?"

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

The day passed, and then a few more days passed. As the four sat in front of the fire Thursday night doing homework, Harry leaned back, stretching wearily.

"Hey Chris," he asked , squinting up into the darkness at Chris, who was reading some book written in Italian, "have you heard anything about your whitelighter trial thing?"

Chris glanced down at him then shook his head. "I don't think it's over yet. Elders are usually under the impression they have all the time in the world to make decisions."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "When do you think I'll meet Penny? I mean, I'm not supposed to even know who she is yet, right? John said it was confidential…"

Chris shrugged. "I guess you'll meet her next time you're in a dangerous situation and just happen to have the desire to yell 'Penny' at the ceiling. It happens. _Not_ that I've yelled 'Penny' exactly, because personally, I've never met a Penny I like, but I do yell random names sometimes to see if anyone comes…. What were we talking about?"

Ron chuckled. "Stay off the drugs, mate."

Chris' jaw dropped in indignation. "I haven't gotten completely smashed since I started coming here!" he exclaimed. There was a pause, then a slightly guilty, "Okay, so once over the weekend, but it was a party…"

The trio stared at him, but he had already started reading again.

Friday came and went, and Chris was gone by midnight.

Saturday passed eventless, and Sunday, the trio went to have tea with Hagrid, who wouldn't hear a word about 'that ruddy Halliwell boy.' They had a nice day, regardless.

Sunday night, Harry lay in bed, his thoughts more restless than he.

His eyes drifted to Ron's bed, where the owner slept quietly behind the curtains. Ron had been quiet a lot lately, and Harry wondered if it was only because he and Hermione were arguing about something again. Hermione was able to get under Ron's skin like no one else. Harry rolled his eyes when he thought about how the two were the only ones in the school oblivious about the fact that they liked each other.

Harry turned onto his side and let his eyes fall onto the window. As his mind began to drift, little things attracted his attention, like how Chris could sit so easily on that windowsill when it appeared so narrow. And, as he watched the stars play hide and seek behind dark clouds, he wondered how someone claustrophobic could so easily be cured by merely sitting next to a window like this. It was so _simple_…

Harry closed his eyes.

_Lights. White lights. With a little bit of blue…? Darkness._

Harry forced his eyes to crack open. He blinked blearily a few times, but, still unable to see anything, reached his hand out towards his nightstand for his glasses.

Somebody placed them in his hand.

Without a second's hesitation, Harry shot up with his wand drawn in the direction of the hand, only to find a fairly old woman chuckling at his expense.

"Easy, tiger," she drawled in an amused American accent. "Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself, now."

"Who are you?" he demanded, not lowering his wand, even as he slid his glasses onto his nose. "How did you get in here?"

Again, the woman chuckled. Now that Harry had his glasses, he could see that she looked about in her mid fifties, but her dark eyes were just as piercing and intelligent as if she were at her prime. She was wearing strange clothes, too, even if he couldn't distinguish the coloring. A beaded shawl draped over a floral patterned blouse and long, lacey skirt. Somehow, though, she still radiated a sense of authority and was almost- _almost_ intimidating.

"I heard you've been asking about me," she drawled, this time considering him seriously. "_I _am Penny Halliwell."

Harry blinked.

The woman seemed somewhat offended at his lack of response and pulled her shawl closer around her as she held her head higher. "Well? Are you going to lower your wand, boy?" she queried haughtily.

"Er… yeah," Harry managed after a moment, and then, "I mean, yes, of course- er- Mrs. Halliwell."

"Ms. Halliwell," corrected the whitelighter, still not pleased. "I've been married eight times, if anyone's counting."

"…Right." Harry blanked. "So… um…"

"…Well, I thought I should introduce myself in case you mistook me for the enemy, as you just did, but in a dire situation," she explained in her clearly condescending manner. "Now that that's done, I need a word with my great-grandson. Where is he…?" she added, glancing around at all the closed curtains.

"He's not back yet," Harry explained, feeling himself redden in embarrassment at being spoken to like such a small child. "He leaves on the weekends, you see."

"Well, I knew _that_," she stated dismissively, and Harry inexplicably felt it was his fault for speaking like an idiot. "I sense him nearby. …Ah… _there_ he is…"

The door had slid open and, in the four A.M. non-light, a shadow moved slowly in. Before Ms. Halliwell could so much as announce her presence, the shadow fell face first into his bed.

Harry and Ms. Halliwell frowned.

"A little light if you would, Mr. Potter," said Ms. Halliwell loftily, standing up and walking over to Chris' bed.

As soon as Harry muttered '_lumos,_' Chris let out a very surprising shriek and pulled his covers straight over his head.

"Damn it! I'm not even asleep and I'm already having nightmares!"

"Excuse me? What do you mean _nightmare_?" Ms. Halliwell asked dangerously.

Harry felt himself redden even more, but this time it was for Chris' ignorance as Ms. Halliwell simmered.

Slowly, Chris pulled the blankets down past his eyes. Even slower, he pulled them all the way down and sat up. "Damn. You're real," he muttered more to himself, but the sound carried easily.

Ms. Halliwell glared coldly. "Christopher, I would like to speak with you privately. If you will come with me downstairs…" she prompted, leaving no room for argument. Chris grimaced but got up to follow her, nonetheless. Together, the Halliwells exited the dorm.

Harry stared after them for a moment, then, thinking he might be dreaming, pinched himself.

Nope. It was real.

Wasting no more time, Harry leapt out of bed and opened his trunk at the foot of his bed. Sitting on top of everything was his invisibility cloak, easily accessible as Dumbledore requested. He grabbed it, threw it on, and, as quietly as he could, crept out the door. He held his breath as he laid foot after foot on step after step, praying Chris was too immersed in the conversation with his 'grams' to hear him. Harry knew that Chris picked up on little sound inconsistencies like no other.

Thankfully, Harry made it to the door leading into the common room with no incident, and he found that it had been left ajar. Harry squeezed through it without needing to open it any wider.

Chris was leaning against the wall beside the fireplace, facing his great grandmother with a very familiar unreadable expression. Penny sat in the armchair directly across from the dying fire as if she always sat there. The woman, Harry assumed, could never look out-of-place or not in control. It was actually interesting seeing the semi-white-haired sixteen year old looking mildly uncertain next to this woman.

Silence.

"So, are we just going to stay here quietly until I telepathically know what you want, or are you going to start the conversation soon?" -Chris.

Penny raised an eyebrow, then looked away with a slow blink. "Prue… wanted me to remind you that it wasn't your fault. She says you're still struggling."

Harry could almost see how Chris stiffened at that. "Noted. Was that all?"

Penny failed to continue to look sympathetic. "When was the last time you got any sleep? You're cranky," she observed stonily.

Chris rolled his eyes. "Great. First you try to be uncharacteristically concerned, now you're trying a guilt trip on me. You could just get to the point, you know. I _really_ don't need these extra frills right now, 'cause I really am _unbelievably_ tired."

Penny opened her mouth as though to snap a retort, but abruptly closed her mouth. It looked painful. At length, she said shortly, "I'm sorry you think that was intended to make you feel guilt, Christopher. I didn't agree with the Elders when they… they did that to you. Yes-- I know--" she held up a hand, anticipating Chris' words when he opened his mouth. "I _was_ upset about… what you did. I _was_, but I… you know I couldn't really blame you when it wasn't _really_ your fault. I mean, we all knew about your relationship with your parents, so it was everyone's fault when we never did anything to change it. That… _event_… was inevitable. The Elders never should have cursed you like that for it."

Now Chris looked vaguely surprised but didn't seem to trust himself to ruin the moment by speaking. He remained silent just watching her, and Harry wondered what on earth they were talking about. The Elders- the people Chris said assigned whitelighters and were the paragon of good- had given him the curse not allowing him to sleep at night? Why would good people curse Chris? What had he done? And what 'relationship' with his parents? Ms. Halliwell made it sound like it was bad…

Harry paused in his thoughts when he recalled Chris' conversation with the Elder 'John' about his father. Of course that relationship wasn't good. So it was the same with his mother?

Before Harry could continue puzzling over the new information, Penny broke the silence.

"And no, I didn't need to tell you anything else. Just give you Prue's message and, well, I needed a plausible excuse to end my conversation with Mr. Potter. It was getting uncomfortably awkward," she ended in her lofty manner.

Chris raised an eyebrow, and Harry could tell he was amused. "So these awkward conversations are common among new charges and whitelighters, huh? And the Elders get pissed at me for not spilling my guts out to every new whitelighter I come across…"

Penny rolled her eyes. "That's because the Elders hate you, dear. So, tell me about Harry. Is he always so vocal?"

"…Was that supposed to be sarcasm?" Chris asked bashfully after a moment, unable to even guess which it was. Even Harry rolled his eyes.

"Yes, that was sarcasm…" Ms. Halliwell drawled, unimpressed. "I'm sorry mine does not equal yours in ferocity…. He seemed rather lost. So?"

Chris blinked, and Harry felt himself beginning to simmer in unprecedented anticipation. He had never thought about what Chris thought of him.

"He's cool," Chris shrugged after a moment. "You'll probably get along once you get to know each other. I mean, he's _really_ a good guy. I don't think he'd ever consciously hurt another human being unless his life depended on it…"

"Well, his life _does_ depend on it," sniffed Penny, glancing out the window Chris usually perched in. "And nobody is really one-hundred percent good, Christopher. You know that."

Again, Chris shrugged. "I'm just sayin'. If he had been born in my place, he wouldn't have screwed up half as much as I have. It's like he knows exactly what he's doing."

"And if you had been born in his place, you probably would have vanquished Voldemort years ago," Ms. Halliwell pointed out, and Harry felt himself grow pink in chagrin.

Chris smiled faintly. "Nobody's parents would have died for me in the first place, Grams."

At this, Penny smiled sadly. "You don't know that. You were a cute baby, and you couldn't speak well enough to be sarcastic like you are now. Your mother might have, then."

Chris rolled his eyes with a humorless laugh. "Gee, thanks. Glad to know my main personality trait is so attractive."

Penny smiled wryly and gracefully got to her feet. "Well, child, I've got to run, now. Must be off and see what Harry will get himself into next… The Elders mentioned something might happen later today… might as well go and ask them about it. -If they can be bothered to give your whitelighter meeting a break, that is."

Chris rolled his eyes yet again. "You know, a whitelighter really would have come in handy today when I was being hanged by some 17th century idiots for witchcraft. Are they _ever_ going to decide?"

"They tried to _hang_ you for witchcraft? What about burning?" Penny evaded the question, looking somewhat curious.

"One of my idiot friends mentioned that I could control fire, so the witch hunters thought hanging was a good alternative," said Chris dismissively. "Do you know how the trial's going?"

"I've got no idea who the Elders are leaning towards," Ms. Halliwell admitted. "My advise is don't get hanged again until you have a whitelighter to heal you." She chuckled when Chris rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. She patted him on the shoulder, but her smiled instantly vanished when he flinched at the contact. He didn't look her back in the eyes, but stared at the ground. "Blessed be, Christopher," she said softly, sadly, and orbed out.

As soon as she disappeared, Harry scarcely dared to breathe lest Chris hear him.

He couldn't help but let his mind race, though. The end of that conversation… on the surface, it appeared to be Chris' usual "I don't like being touched" thing, but Harry got the distinct impression it was something more. It was like Ms. Halliwell knew exactly why; and it was an understandable reason, but Chris was… _embarrassed_ about it?

There was silence for a moment as Harry continued thinking and Chris stared at the ground.

Several minutes passed, then, just as quietly as the silence before, Chris moved in front of the window. Harry anticipated him jumping onto the windowsill like he usually did, so he was surprised when Chris merely sat down crossed-legged on the floor in front of it, still staring at the floor. Then, Harry was just as surprised when Chris slowly took off the long trench coat he always wore- Harry had only seen him without it once, and only for that split second in the Great Hall.

Chris still had the bandages on his left forearm, but now that Harry could see him for more than a split second, he noticed that on his right forearm, all the way from the heel of his hand to his elbow was a long, grotesque scar. It looked as though a knife had been plunged down to the bone at his wrist and dragged all the way to his elbow. It looked like a suicide attempt if Harry had ever seen one. He was actually more surprised that it had merely been an _attempt_, the scar seemed so deep.

Slowly, Chris was unraveling the bandages on his left arm, starting with the end at the elbow. Harry could have sunk to the floor when he saw the beginnings of a very similar scar on that arm, too.

Harry's thoughts slowly numbed as the gravity of it all hit him. Chris- the Chris he questioned about homework, who he talked to late at night about stupid trivial stuff because neither could sleep, who had murdered the giants months ago- the Chris who thought cheering Harry up meant making a witty or sarcastic comment at just the right moment to _actually _cheer him up- had honestly tried to end his own life. Chris had really taken a knife to his wrists with the intention of never opening his eyes again.

Before these fleeting thoughts had time to run rampant, though, Harry saw the rest of the bandages pulled off.

His left forearm.

Black ink.

The Dark Mark.

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A/N: PLEASE REVIEW!!**


	18. Of the Dark Mark

**Disclaimer: I don't own this. Or that.**

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Chapter 18: Of the Dark Mark**

"I'm telling you, Hermione, I saw it! I wasn't just dreaming…!"

"Harry, I understand that. I was just saying that Professor Snape _specifically said _Chris wasn't a Death Eater. I mean_… I think he would know_," she finished for the hundredth time in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening.

The three were hastening down the corridor to first period in Charms. They appeared to already be late, as the rest of the castle was already in the quiet daze that signified an extraordinary amount of boredom. The trio had gotten so caught up in discussing Harry's discovery at breakfast that they hadn't noticed the time fly by and students vanish with it.

Just as Harry opened his mouth to say the same reply he had been giving for the past ten minutes, Ron finally interrupted. "Look, we're just going to have to ask either Snape or Chris, alright? We know you saw it, Harry, but we're just going to have to find the explanation _behind_ it, now. Okay? There's no use arguing like this until we know more."

Harry and Hermione both stared at this uncharacteristic spasm of moderation from Ron, who began to grow red at the attention.

"It's not _that_ bloody unusual," he grumbled as he pushed the door open and led the way into the classroom.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry, Ron, and Hermione ultimately decided to ask Snape, since asking an enemy, they felt, was better than trapping a friend.

So, right after Defense class one day, the three shared looks of those bravely facing an execution together, and made their way to Snape's desk.

Snape looked up, but if he was surprised, they couldn't tell.

"Well?" he demanded curtly as he organized a stack of papers.

Ron and Hermione gave Harry That look, prompting him on. So Harry took a breath and stated baldly, "Chris has the Dark Mark. You said he wasn't a Death Eater."

At that, Snape's head shot up, and his surprise was now transparent. He blinked at them for a moment; then his expression turned to cold anger.

"Foolish child," he hissed, quickly whipping out his wand, and on pure reflex, Harry's was out as well. Snape didn't comment on Harry's reaction, but pointed his own wand at the door and muttered, "Christopher Halliwell, a moment, if you please."

Then he swished his wand in a sweeping, circular motion and chanted a quiet spell. When he was done, he turned his attention back to the bewildered youths and spat, "You cannot go around blurting out statements such as that without _precautions_, Potter. You shouldn't say such things in the first place. You have no idea who could be listening."

"Er. Sorry. Sir," Harry apologized blankly. "What… did you just…?"

"I set up a sound barrier," Snape interrupted with a sneer at his ignorance. "Now, Christopher will be here any moment, so you might want to tell me what leads you to believe such a fact before we discuss it with him."

"I _saw_ it is what makes me believe that- sir," Harry returned shortly, wondering why on earth Snape had called Chris to them. It seemed the trio's plan had backfired a little.

Snape seemed to consider that flat accusation for a moment, then gave a single nod.

A second later, Chris appeared at the door looking slightly confused. "Did you…?"

"Yes, a calling spell, Mr. Halliwell," Snape finished rather impatiently. "Now, _are_ you or are you _not_ a Death Eater?"

Chris looked even more confused. "What…?" his eyes finally seemed to take in Harry, Ron, and Hermione. He blinked, and his confusion became nonexistent in his blank mask. "You guys think I'm a Death Eater. _Really_." It wasn't a question, and they didn't answer. Chris sighed exasperatedly as though they had answered, and his eyes searched the ceiling as if to ask, 'Why me?' "No, I'm not a fucking Death Eater. Jesus."

He turned to leave, looking for all the world like he was tired of them, and Harry couldn't really blame him. Harry had never meant for him to find out until they knew the entire story, and only then if it proved that Chris wasn't a friend, after all.

"Halliwell," snapped the professor, and Chris stopped briefly to turn a glare on him. Harry distinctly noticed Snape lean a bit farther back in his chair as though trying to put a little more space between him and the Halliwell.

"What?" Chris said in dangerously clipped tones.

"Do you have the Dark Mark?" Snape asked, and Harry had to give it to him that it was a fairly even tone.

Chris scowled. "_Yes_, but that story is _none_ of your business."

Again, he tried to leave, but this time Snape took a moment before saying softly, "You escaped because someone slipped you a potion allowing you to wake up during the Death Eaters' changing of guards. The door leading to the main level had an alarm that was conveniently disabled at the exact moment you needed it to be. The guards outside couldn't catch you because they were called to tend to a distraction in the lower levels."

By now, Chris had stopped in the doorway. Slowly, he turned to face Snape. "…Why?"

At first, even though Harry had no idea what they were talking about, he was tempted to answer, 'Because Snape did it, apparently,' only to find that they were already on the next page.

"As much as I hate the dunderheads I teach, Christopher, it brings me no pleasure to see a mere child beaten and broken by my hand. I think you agree that it is much more satisfying to do such to adults," he responded bluntly, but Chris didn't vocalize any such agreement. His expression hadn't changed from the detached searching one. After a moment, Snape finished, "I think you owe me an explanation, at the very least. If you still believe it is none of these three's business, they can be made to leave with no problem, but I think I deserve to know if the person I risked my life saving was _worth_ saving."

All four students stared at him. -Silence.

"That was… rather poetic, professor," Harry commented dryly, finally breaking the tension, and Snape threw him a foul look.

"You can leave now, if that's all you've got to say on the subject, Potter," he spat out nastily.

Within no time, the two were in a heated verbal battle about who had the right to stay, who had the right to be involved in war-dealings, and everything else they usually argued about, all the while trying to maintain their tempers to fit a formal teacher-student atmosphere.

"Chris!" Hermione suddenly called, and Snape, Harry, and Ron glanced up to find that Chris had walked out the door.

Hermione made to run out after him, her face scrunched up in distress at how wrong the situation was going, but Snape held up a hand to stop her.

"Don't," he said harshly and went out after Chris himself.

The three stared after him, then turned to face each other. Harry could read on both Ron and Hermione's faces the same distress he felt, himself.

There was silence. Several minutes of silence.

Hermione broke it eventually by stating bluntly, "Snape tortured him. That's why they hated each other."

Harry nodded mutely while Ron just stared at the ground. More silence.

After another long pause, Harry mused aloud, "What do you reckon they're talking about?"

Surprisingly, he received an answer.

"How very Gryffindor it was of him to help me, and how very Slytherin it is of him to call in a debt like this," replied Chris flatly. "Apparently I still haven't comprehended the depth of these house stereotypes."

"I believe that is the least of our concerns at the moment, Christopher," said Snape as he walked back into the room behind the boy.

"Take long enough talking about it?" demanded Ron, looking relieved that the awkward waiting period was finally over.

Chris gave him- or rather, the floor near him- a strained smile.

The room fell quiet as Chris moved to sit in a nearby desk and stared at his hands for a moment, clearly trying to decide how to start.

At length, he admitted to his hands, "I really can't believe I'm going to flat out tell someone something like this. I don't do story times. …But Snape did help me out of a pretty unpleasant situation-" here, Snape snorted at the blatant understatement, "-and I do owe it to him. And I might as well tell y'all while I'm at it, because the idea of you thinking I'm a Death Eater really- _really_ disturbs me. Seriously." He glanced up at Snape for a second with a glimpse of the old twinkle in his eye. "No offense."

Snape rolled his eyes. "Just get on with it, Halliwell. I do have another class to teach sometime today."

Chris gave a brief nod and looked back to his hands. "Okay. Well… um… I guess I could start with three weeks before this term started. Um… I had been captured by the Source, and… he had the odd notion that he might be able to 'turn' me if he forced me and Voldemort to share an apartment. Weird, right? Anyway… needless to say, I spent my time annoying the hell out of Voldemort, and he got really mad at me. Obviously. Um… when it got clear that the Source's plan wasn't going to work, he- the Source, uh, pretty much handed me over to Voldemort try _his_ hand at turning me. Also needless to say, it involved extensive torture, mainly done by his Death Eaters. …I guess it was about… a day or two after the last time I saw Snape, Voldemort… well, came for one of his 'sessions' and…"

His voice drifted off and his eyes became even more unfocused as they stared at his hands than they had been. He seemed to have completely lost his will to participate in his monologue.

"This is the only part you've been leading up to, Christopher," Snape reminded him, rolling his eyes. "It would be pointless for you to stop now."

"I… I know," Chris mumbled, still not meeting anyone's eyes. "I just…"

When it seemed he wasn't going to go on, a three dimensional image appeared out of thin air suspended between Chris and his listeners. They all blinked in surprise, save Snape, whose bottomless eyes narrowed in thought. For a split second, Harry wondered if Chris would get rid of this piece of visual evidence, for Chris had looked just as taken aback as the rest of them. But Chris merely stared at it for a moment then looked forcedly back to his hands, giving silent permission for them to watch if he wouldn't have to explain it.

Harry turned his attention to the memory projection.

_The room was dark. It appeared to be a stone chamber with no windows, one steel door, and lit only by two sputtering torches. On the wall across from the door, barely visible in the dim light, was Chris, bruised, bloody, and barely conscious, on his knees and leaning against the wall behind him as though its presence was the only thing keeping him upright, breathing, and conscious. And he didn't look like he would last much longer._

_Kneeling in front of Chris, his flat, snake-like face mere inches from Chris', was Lord Voldemort in all his gloating glory. _

"_You know what they say is the worst punishment a warrior can suffer?" the Dark Lord whispered silkily, his thin lips brushing Chris' hair as he reached and took hold of the boy's dead-like arm. Slowly, Voldemort began to push up the sleeve while keeping his mouth very near Chris' ear. "They say it is to mark him… with the sign of his enemy… so he may never forget their triumph over him. …So he may never forget that he lost to them. What do you think, my _greatHalliwell_ child?"_

_Chris didn't respond. He looked as though he was having enough trouble breathing and keeping conscious as it was. _

_Smirking, the reptilian wizard looked down to the uncovered arm only to find his smirk vanish. He stared at the jagged scar tissue with intrigued, shocked eyes. _

"…_Still… think… I'm… a spoiled… brat?" Chris breathed softly, his eyes seeming to want to stay closed. Voldemort noticed that and his face twisted in anger._

"_Ennervate!" he spat, and Chris' eyes fluttered open again, but they were glazed and unfocused. It was clear that no matter how many spells Voldemort performed, Chris wasn't going to last without immediate medical care. _

_Still looking furious that Chris might die before he had enough torture time, the Dark Lord grabbed Chris' arm again and waved his wand above it with the other. Slowly, smooth red cuts began to appear on Chris' forearm, but the blood poured over everything before they could tell its final design. They all knew what it was, anyway. _

_The scene hazed slightly as Voldemort swept to his feet and sneer down his 'nose' at the semi-conscious, fatally wounded child. He raised his wand once again just as a short woman in a ridiculous pink outfit walked in and stood in the doorway. _

_Voldemort's thin lips pulled into a smile, and his scarlet eyes glittered almost happily as he cried, "Avada Kedavra!"_

The projection vanished in a flash of green.

"He killed you?" Ron blurted before anyone else could speak.

Chris stared at the floor with a tight smile. "And looked like he had fun doing it, too, didn't he?" At Snape's disbelieving look, he elaborated, "The woman in pink was a genie. She resurrected me. As you yourself were told;" here, he laughed quietly, sardonically, "I'm _not allowed _to die."

"…So… so is that why you… you…?" Hermione stammered hesitantly. "You know…"

"…Cut my wrists trying to kill myself?" Chris guessed, and Hermione gave a short nod, still looking uncomfortable with her own question. "No. No, I did that a long time ago."

"A long time ago?" murmured Snape, giving Chris a calculating stare. "You're only sixteen."

Chris gave the same soft, cynical laugh. "Yeah, well, my twin sister committed suicide when she was _nine_; I think I'm allowed to start being suicidal at a relatively young age."

Snape opened his mouth to say something else, but Harry beat him to it inadvertently.

"Why?" he asked simply, gazing hard at the ground between his and Chris' feet.

Chris blinked, caught off guard by the relative simplicity of the statement. He rebounded by shifting the subject. "So everyone gets in a fuss about me being a Death Eater, and suddenly all you want to talk about is a minor detail of bad day several _years_ ago? Did I _miss_ something?"

"This war didn't start until one or two years ago, Chris," said Harry quietly, still staring at the floor between them. "I'm just curious what the heck could drive you to kill yourself _before_ all this. I don't understand."

And Chris blinked again. He opened his mouth, but shut it rather quickly and looked away. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Snape were all watching him, waiting. At length, he responded softly, tonelessly. "Because sometimes, Harry, life just sucks."

"That's it? 'Life just sucks'? That's really retarded," Harry spat, and everyone looked at him in surprise at his vehemence. Harry scowled. "If that's the only reason, then I could have killed myself God knows how many times by now! What the hell is wrong with you?"

By now, everyone's jaws had dropped to the floor. Chris, although still appearing shocked, also looked like he was having a hard time not laughing. "Harry, man, you've probably noticed there's not a lot _not_ wrong with me."

"And you're trying to be _funny_. I cannot _believe_ you," Harry hissed, glaring coldly, and Chris finally looked as taken aback as the rest of them.

"…You're pissed."

"No, really?"

"…Let me guess why," Chris said softly, his stormy green eyes following the pacing Harry. Harry gave him a look, challenging him to do it. Chris gave a slight nod in acknowledgement. "You've known people to be murdered. They've gone before their time, probably cut down when you really needed them, and you don't understand how I could consciously do that to the people who care about me. You're mad because you don't understand it, and it's wrong, and- worst of all- it happens anyway. Is that pretty much right?"

"_I don't see how you could make that decision_!" Harry confirmed heatedly, throwing his hands out. "People die enough as it is without people just _giving up_ like that! I _just don't get it_…"

Chris studied him for a second longer. "…That's good," he commented quietly before getting to his feet. He glanced at Snape. "Now, if you're all satisfied that I'm not a Death Eater…"

At Snape's fractional nod, Chris left.

"'That's good'? What the hell does that mean?" Harry demanded, sorely frustrated.

"That means," Snape began softly, "that it's good you don't understand. Or else your life would have to be bad enough for you to understand what it's like to want to end it. Do try and use whatever amount of brain you have, Potter, no matter how small it may be. …Now, why don't you follow his lead and _get out_."

"Um… professor?" squeaked Hermione. "One last question…? Er… do you know, um, his relationship with the- with the Malfoys, sir?"

"No, I don't, Miss Granger," said Snape, pointedly opening his door. "You've already missed your break, I suggest you get to lunch."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked along the rocky shore of the lake, his clouded eyes watching the uneven ground in front of him as though it didn't even exist. In his mind, it didn't. But, at the moment, nothing really existed in his mind. His solitary thought was that he wanted to be alone. And he was.

Mission accomplished.

And then he felt a very familiar- very _welcome_- sensation of dissolving into light. And then he found himself rematerializing in a very familiar- very unwelcome- white, white chamber.

The Elders' council room.

Chris closed his eyes as he realized why he was there- his whitelighter's trial. And he was surrounded by Elders.

The Halliwell took a deep breath and willed something to rise to the surface of his dead eyes, so the Elders wouldn't see how well they were winning- he couldn't help the empty look that had entered his dark-bagged eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he had gone to sleep, nightmares and all, and the people he had considered friends had just accused him of being a Death Eater, not to mention the _nice_ discussion about suicide they'd had… God, he needed coffee…

As Christopher slowly forced himself to face the Supreme Forces of Good, no emotion made it into his eyes. The Elders were winning.

"Christopher Halliwell?" confirmed the Elder to the far right, and Chris gave him an unnerving sidelong look, wondering why the hell the Elder even had to ask. "W-we're here to address the situation about the question of your whitelighter."

Chris watched him without feeling, but when the Elder seemed to forget to go on, he arched a trained eyebrow. "_And_…?" he hinted, un-amused and pretty much unconcerned. He briefly scanned the panel of Elders with his eyes while he waited- there were eighteen golden-gowned creeps. That was all but one. He ignored a vague notion of disappointment when he instantly knew which one it was missing. He forcibly reminded himself that he didn't care.

"Er- Right," the Elder finally continued. "Could the whitelighters in question please come out, so we may explain the situation?"

"_Explain- again_?" a voice groaned from behind the council room, and Chris watched with detached interest as the double-doors across from him were thrown open by an invisible force to reveal three very familiar whitelighters. Lily, in all her young-mother beautiful glory, Sirius Black, looking like he had been the one that had spoken as he was practically leaning dead on the doorframe in exasperation, and James Potter, appearing slightly annoyed that he had been dragged into the situation at all.

The three stepped forward, their gazes immediately falling on Chris, and Chris didn't give them the benefit of a response. His eyes moved back to the speaking Elder with an almost callous nonchalance, even as his throat felt likely to rip from how badly he suddenly wanted to scream.

He was so _tired_. He was tired of the Elders and their brutality when dealing with him- of trying to give whitelighters a freaking chance after losing the best whitelighter imaginable so suddenly- he was tired of never being able to sleep because of the Elders and their whacked ideas of _punishment_- he was _so tired_. And he couldn't scream; because screaming would show that they were getting to him- that they had power over him- and he couldn't give them that satisfaction. He wouldn't give anyone that satisfaction. But _damn_, they were _winning_.

"Mrs. Potter has requested the removal of Mr. Halliwell as her charge on the basis that she may not be the most qualified for the position, despite the specific request of the late Prudence Halliwell…. We had already been approached by Mr. Potter, who offered to take the responsibility on the basis that he is less easily affected by the stressfulness. It has _also_ been brought to our attention that Mr. Black found an interest and can possibly be the most qualified based solely on his similarities with Mr. Halliwell. Mr. Halliwell, do you understand these circumstances?"

Chris fought down the desire to respond with a childish, 'Like you care,' and instead settled with a multi-interpretational, "Clearly."

The Elder squinted at that response, and Chris knew he was trying to figure out if Chris had just given him lip. The Halliwell suppressed a smirk. The Elder eventually continued.

"We Elders have taken into consideration many factors to judge who is best to fit your needs, Mr. Halliwell, including your colorful past, unique attitude, and atypical magical and living situation. With regard to that, we have decided that the unusualness of everything warrants an unusual result…"

"Ralph, could you please get to the point?" snapped James, arms crossed. "We've been at this for weeks- _we know_!"

At this blatant discourtesy, the Elder- Ralph, huffed out his chest and defended himself with a pompous, "Well, _he_ might not know, and it _is_ the question of _his_ whitelighter!"

"Quite honestly, I don't give a damn, so you could just get it over with," Chris volunteered indifferently. He could feel James give him an appraising look at that.

The Elder glowered. "Well, then, I see that our time spent out of _concern_ for you has pretty fairly gone to _waste_…" he paused to scowl, and Chris was hard put not to snicker. "I suppose I will get along with it, since you've all made your feelings quite clear… James, Sirius, Lily, you'll all three be responsible for Christopher equally. You will continue to guide and care for your other charges, but you all have qualities that should serve to guide Christopher in varying areas, and we feel none can be ignored. It will be your task, over time, to figure out what exactly each of you has to offer, and we expect to see improvement in his behavior very soon. Understood?" he gave the whitelighters severe looks, and they quickly closed their gaping mouths. Chris couldn't really blame them for being surprised; a person with three whitelighters was completely unheard of.

"Yes, sir," said Lily dutifully, but she and James shared a look incomprehensible to Chris.

"Good, and Christopher?"

"_Improvement in my behavior_?" Chris repeated quietly, his eyes following the Elder in his eerie way. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

The Elder shifted uncomfortably, and Chris couldn't tell if it was from his own unsettling stare, or from the prospective answer. "Er… well… Dang it, Christopher, you know what I mean! Stop playing games with me!"

"Games?" repeated Chris in the same soft tone. "It was an honest question, _Ralph_. I mean, is my behavior not consistent? Am I not the same sarcastic, smart-ass bastard to _everyone_? I think if I am, then it's not just my behavior, Ralph- it's my _personality_. And personalities are not exactly open to 'improvement.' They just _are_." He stared innocently at the Elder but still gave the impression that he was daring him to challenge him.

And challenge him he did. The Elder threw up his hands in fervency as he cried, "That's not what I mean, _and you know it_! I mean, the way you switch sides like most women switch handbags! Your lack of loyalty to your _own side _is absolutely _disgusting_! _That's_ what I mean!"

Chris' eyes narrowed dangerously, and he could almost _feel_ his blood beginning to get hotter. How _dare_ this- this _waste of space _accuse him like that? "You think I wanted to do that, do you?" he hissed so quietly it was barely audible. But they heard him. They all heard him. "You think I wanted to be put in those situations-? Where I had to-" and he stopped abruptly, because no one here needed to know what he'd had to do. He took a moment as all eyes were on him to regain control of his breathing and calm down. After several breaths, he began again in much evener, albeit colder tones. "I have not committed a single nefarious deed in months, despite the costs. If you can't see that… I have nothing more to say to you."

He and the Elder had locked eyes, cold green and stubborn brown, and neither backed down.

However, when Ralph opened his mouth to throw out a retort, another voice interrupted.

"Ah, shove it, Ralph," said Sirius rather lazily. "Give the kid a bloody break for once, eh? Isn't like it'd kill you, 'cause I hate to break it to you, _you're already dead_." He waggled an eyebrow for effect. What effect, though, Chris was not sure.

Ralph puffed his chest out again, royally offended, but Lily stepped in before it could start all over. But instead of merely stepping between Ralph and Chris, she stepped in front of all of the eighteen Elders.

"Sirs, thank you for taking the time to treat this decision with as much care as possible; but do you think we could all adjourn for today and let us speak privately with our charge?"

The Elders eyed her for a moment as if deciding whether to even consider her proposal or not, and she gave her modest little half-smile as if to encourage them. At length, the Elders shared a single look; then one stood up to speak for them all.

"This matter is hereby closed, although the situation will undergo the standard six-week observation period before it is recorded in the archives." He faced the three whitelighters, who still stood opposite the room of Chris, and gave them a solemn nod. "Good luck to you."

Lily now flashed her brightest smile in gratitude, and Sirius verbally cried out in joy. James just uncrossed his arms. The three turned to face their new charge, their expressions varied.

Chris just crossed his arms.

* * *

**A/N: I was really upset at first when I didn't get as many reviews as I'm used to, and I had this long rant ready and everything when I realized what a complete idiot I was being. I really don't care how MANY reviews I get, because I love every single one just because that person is taking the time to read my little obsession here, and they actually like it. That means a lot to me. Every review is really great, and I thank every single person that takes the time to write one. Thank you all so much!!!**


	19. Of Families

**Disclaimer: Standard**

**Chapter 19: ****Of Families**

The Elders filed out after this conclusion, each offering the whitelighters words of encouragement as they passed. And then they were gone, and the Potters, Black, and Halliwell were alone.

Lily smiled, almost apologetically, and Chris noted not for the first time that she had quite an impressive collection of smiles, versus his mere collection of three: happy, sad, and fake ones.

Sirius grinned jubilantly and bonded over to close the gap between whitelighters and charge. "Well, kid," he declared brightly, "Looks like we're going to be spending more time together, now! Man, this is going to be fun…"

And Chris looked at him like he had a wart-filled foot sticking unattractively out of his nostrils. "…Who have _you_ been talking to?"

Sirius laughed his bark-like laugh and shared a look with James over his shoulder.

James rolled his eyes. "Sirius here considers anything reckless, badly planned, or remotely dangerous- _a good time_. So, from what I've heard, he probably will have fun."

Chris turned the look on James, but didn't humor the comment with a response. Instead, he pointed out, "I need to get back to Hogwarts, so if someone would like to orb me, that would be an extremely logical thing for a whitelighter to do."

"So you're not even going to humor me with a response?" demanded James, even as Lily orbed them all to the lakeside at Hogwarts. The time difference between Up There and Down Here had made it already close to dark.

Chris threw James another dirty look. "I can understand what qualities Lily and Sirius might have to benefit me, but right now, all I see in you is a verbal punching bag. So I would shut up if I were you."

Chris turned and began walking back towards the castle when James' yell appeared close behind him.

"Hey! Hey, stop!" James jogged to catch up, Lily and Sirius close behind him. "Look, kid, if I'm going to be responsible for you, we're going to get over whatever issues you have with me! _Stop_!"

Finally, Chris stopped, but only long enough to give James a scorching glare, which had the whitelighter rethinking his ideas about trying to command the teen.

"_Issues_?" Chris spat scathingly as he began walking again. "You tied me to a fucking chair and locked me in a closet! Yeah, I would definitely consider that- _issues_."

"You were trying to escape and get yourself killed in a battle! Of course I couldn't let you-"

"_I- am- the- last- major- source- of- power- on- our- side_," Chris dictated over-clearly in his anger, stopping in his tracks to face James. "Thirty-eight people _died_ that day because _you_ would not let me go help them. Those demons couldn't have hurt me if they had teamed up and exhausted their _every_ effort. You were just being an idiot, and you screwed everyone because of it. So- yeah- you and me- _issues_."

He walked away again, and this time, James didn't follow. He merely called, "Harry is the exact same thing to this war. You think I would have let him go?"

And Chris froze. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly at the blunt insinuation. Slowly, he turned around again, and, this time, they all looked surprised that he was even going to respond. "Let me make one thing perfectly clear," he said quietly, but his voice carried through the cool October air the entire distance. "I am _not_ your son. I'm not even remotely like your son. And, at the moment, I don't even _like_ your son. So remember that, before you go and try to act like a '_father__'_ to me."

"And what does that mean?" James asked just as quietly, not breaking eye contact, though any demon would have been having a panic attack at the look Chris was giving him. "'Father,' like the word is bloody _poison_. What's the matter, your old man never hugged you as a child or something?"

"What's the matter is that I've already got a father, and if he doesn't care, _you_ definitely don't have the right," Chris spat and strode away for the last time.

The minute Chris was out of sight, Sirius smiled grimly at the bemused Potters around him. "See? I told you he and his father hated each other's guts." He clapped James on the shoulder and finished unnecessarily, "My advice would be not to compare him to Harry, James-ie boy."

James rolled his eyes and pushed Sirius' hand off his shoulder. "Right. Thanks for the heads up, Sirius."

Lily, however, sighed as she watched the castle gleaming orange in the twilight. Her brow was furrowed worriedly. "What did he mean he doesn't even like Harry? So far, I've seen that they get along pretty well…"

"Knowing Harry, Ron, and Hermione, they've probably made Chris their mystery of the year, and Chris is probably pissed that they're actually getting somewhere," Sirius answered, glowing proudly.

When the parents appeared perplexed, Sirius explained patiently, "Those three have found something to investigate every year- who is Nicholas Flammel? What's the sorcerer's stone? Who opened the Chamber of Secrets? Why does Sirius Black want to kill Harry?- they really thought I wanted to, James, stop laughing! Who entered Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire? Etc, etc. So, Chris is probably this year's mission, the poor bugger."

James chuckled, obviously thinking back to his own Hogwarts days and feeling a strong sense of pride for his son's continuation of it, and Sirius grinned at the sight, knowing exactly what James was feeling.

Lily's face, however, fell. "But what about the girl- Hermione? Doesn't she keep them out of any trouble?" she queried, clearly troubled at the idea of her son getting directly into harm's way every year.

Sirus gave a thoughtful little half shrug. "Eh. She shoots down their stupid and, you know, downright dangerous ideas, but she's _definitely_ a Gryffindor."

"Hey, why the _girl_, Lily? You didn't ask about Rob-"

"Ron."

"Whatever," James waved dismissively and looked to his wife, a challenging expression on his face but amused twinkle in his eyes.

Lily flashed him a knowing smile. "Don't give me that look, James. You know how boys are when left to their own devices."

"She's got us there, m'boy," Sirius sighed, shaking his head in exaggerated defeat. James gave up the challenge without further argument and just laughed.

Slowly, the lull in conversation turned into a full silence. The three quietened, all gazing reminiscently at the castle that had been their home for seven and more years; the castle that was now home to Harry more than their place at Godric's Hollow had ever been. It was a strange, heart-tugging concept to the mildly undead trio. At length, however, Lily turned her vivid green eyes back to her husband and friend, a deep tone of solemnity lurking in the recesses. James instantly knew they were going to talk about Chris again.

"So, I suppose I should tell you guys what I already know," she began quietly, casting a glance back at the castle for some sort of strength. When James and Sirius silently nodded agreement, she nodded and continued softly. "Alright. Um, first off, he's extremely addicted to coffee, marijuana, and alcohol. He attracts bad guys and situations like a magnet- trust me, we won't be bored. Since I've been his whitelighter, he's managed to duel both Voldemort _and_ Daeku, not to mention every demon under them, and survive. He's been captured by the enemy at least three times and tortured for a week straight on one occasion. He obviously thinks it's the funniest thing in the world to send people to Valhalla just for annoying him… Um… his mother died two years ago, and the Elders hold him accountable, somehow. They refused to tell me the entire situation, but I know they cursed him to remember the event- and every other time he's been responsible for an innocent's death or demise- whenever he sleeps, so he only sleeps once or twice a week- hence his addiction to coffee-"

"Wait, now, hold on," Sirius interrupted, holding up his hands as if they were stop signs, and Lily abruptly stopped. "The _Elders_ did that? Lil, they're not the most vengeful spirits, if you haven't noticed. Why on earth would they do that to a kid? It's practically torture!"

Lily nodded thoughtfully. "That's what I thought, but apparently the murder was pretty gruesome… and somehow the blood was on Chris' hands," Lily responded, shifting on her feet uncomfortably. "Um… when I was digging for more information, though, I did find out that the curse wasn't their first choice of punishment. They forbade his using orbing or healing, but when he healed someone, they freaked out and cursed him with the nightmares for challenging their authority."

"He's part whitelighter?" asked James, astonished. "Are you kidding? Whitelighters are _pacifists_! That kid's a loaded pistol- a loose cannon- a juvenile _delinquent_!"

At this, Lily's eyes softened considerably. "I know, James. I just… I don't know. Apparently his mother and aunts are pretty well known for being leaders in the war between good and evil, and his father's an angel, so he's having to struggle with both existing in his blood."

"Wait- who _is_ his father?" Sirius interrupted suddenly. "I mean, if he's a whitelighter, we should know him, or at least have heard of him. And there can't be too many that have married, you know, after their death."

Lily blinked. "I don't know. I haven't had the time to find out…."

Sirius and James shared a contemplative look, and Lily knew they would know Chris' dad's identity within the next day. After a moment, the would-be brothers asked her to continue divulging her knowledge, so she did.

"His family was tortured to death not too long ago, I think. That's why he wouldn't call me when Voldemort and the Source had him, because he was afraid I would be killed just like they were. Prue, his last whitelighter, was his aunt, and she committed suicide, but I don't know why. The Elders won't even look at me when I go there. Um… he's the leader of the Resistance team FU1, which is the team sent on the top priority missions…. They have no idea his last name is Halliwell, or that he's just sixteen. Let's see… His powers are intangibility, telekinesis, pyrokinesis, retro-cognition, shields, and empathy. He's a really fantastic potions maker, but not so great with the self-written spells. Um… he's a really pathetic broom-flier, if that cheers you up, James. And… I think that about sums it up."

James blinked. "That- that- not really, no. It doesn't cheer me up at all. So- what you're saying is- his _whole family _was killed by that lunatic that's working with Voldemort?"

Lily nodded mutely, the pain of what she was saying shining in her clouded eyes.

James' expression of unhappy disbelief would have been comical if the situation hadn't been so severe. "Are you _serious_? And he was just snapping my head off for keeping him _out_ of the war? Is he some kind of masochist or something? This is unbelievable! How in the world did he become so involved in the war in the first place? Why would the Source want him bad enough to murder his whole family...?" his voice trailed off abruptly and he looked away, a deep crease in his brow.

Lily, understanding his silent anguish, moved closer behind her husband and took his hand into hers.

"He's not Harry, James," she whispered gently. "It wasn't for the sake of some prophecy, and he wasn't just a year old. It was only a few months ago, and it was a struggle for information or power or _whatever_. You know, things we faced _all the time _in the Order. You can't treat him like you would your child, James," she suddenly stopped, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. She smiled weakly as she wiped at the rims of her eyelids and finished unsteadily, "…He's just _not_ Harry…"

"This is going to be hard, isn't it?" Sirius asked grimly, coming to stand beside them and look out over the evening lit lake. "Seeing them everyday and not being able to speak with them…"

Lily nodded somberly. "But it's worth it," she murmured quietly, "to see what kind of person Harry's become… to see him talking and laughing with friends…. It's worth it."

"Alright, um, let's get to work," Sirius voiced after several long moments of silence. "So, Lily, you find out more about his mother and what happened; James you dig into his last whitelighter's situation, and I'll find the kid's dear ol' dad," he smiled wryly. "Everyone ready? Good! Let's do it! …And, I suppose, we'll all take turns watching him and figuring out who's trying to kill him, next…" he added as an afterthought.

A few days passed. Sirius, of course, found Leo and had an extremely short conversation with him in which Leo scowled darkly at Chris' name and made an excuse to leave. Lily made it no farther in the investigation about Piper's death other than to confirm that the deed had been finished by Chris himself. The circumstances were still unclear, and the Elders refused to help. James didn't make it far in his search except to find that Prue had requested Lily specifically to replace her, should anything happen. Apparently Lily had babysat Chris when he was a small child and Prue had other charges to take care of. Lily hadn't even remembered until James reminded her.

More days passed. At Hogwarts, things seemed to be calming down at last. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had an unspoken truce with Chris to keep their distance, now that their cover of quiet investigation was blown. Chris, for the most part, was normal- as in, his sarcasm was as penetrating and all encompassing as ever, but he was little quieter than before. Of course, he had never been the most talkative of the group, but it was still a noticeable change. He just seemed distracted most of the time. They all knew something was bothering him, but no one dared question him about it, lest their thin truce be broken.

So things continued on quietly. Until Halloween came, at least.

"I cannot _wait_ for the feast," Ron drooled as he, Harry, and Chris headed to breakfast. "Pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes, flame broiled chicken, lamb chops…"

"So, how've you liked Hogwarts, now that you've been here two months?" Harry inquired of Chris, both ignoring Ron's ever-lengthening list of delicacies.

Chris' face fell comically. "_Two months_? Are you _kidding_ me? Damn it, not even _half_…"

Harry took that as answer enough and forgot any thoughts about pleasant conversation for the rest of the morning. The three took seats next to Hermione, who instantly looked up from the _Morning Prophet_, her brown eyes deeply perturbed.

"Chris, I think you better see this," she said grimly, before they even had a chance to say 'Good morning.' She passed him the front pages of the _Prophet_, and Harry and Ron craned over his shoulder to see it.

The headline and the picture were so big, they needn't had craned to see it,.

**HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED IN AMERICA**

_In a brief statement Tuesday night, Head of the Auror office Gawain Robards confirmed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has allied with American Dark Lords, the most prominent of these foreign lords being the __"__Source of all Evil,__"__ also known as Lord Wyatt, and the just as lethal Lord Christopher. It is unclear when these allegiances were formed, or what their particular goals are, but the Ministry assures the community that these wizards have not made any attempts so far to overthrow the government using their combined powers. The front in the United States, however, is far more grim, and it is no wonder our Muggle communities lost touch. Hardly a city in sight has not been affected in some way by these magicians__'__ evil might, whether they are forced to submit to the will of these Dark Lords or die in attempts to resist. It appears magic has been forever uncovered in the worst way possible in the States, and Ministry officials here are currently debating whether or not to send aid to the warring nation. Our original source, who provided the illustration at the left hand side, notes that there is a certain Resistance movement in place, already, but they exist more as a refugee program than to fight the enemy.  
__"__There is a certain quintet in the Resistance, however, known as FU1, that does exist to thwart nefarious plans,__"__ our anonymous source said under intense questioning. __"__And, although they do possess extraordinary combat skills, it is, quite frankly, ridiculous to think they alone can defeat the more organized and more effective Dark Empire. Without help, the Americas will fall, and Europe will be next.__"__ (ctd. page 3, column 2)_

The picture at the left of this narrow column was chilling in intensity. It focused on a city about the size of San Francisco enveloped in roaring flames. People could be seen running, screaming, from the fire only to come face-to-face with vicious, snarling, and unnaturally black dogs which ravaged both the city and the citizens. Their raw, terrified shrieks were bone-chilling, even through the newspaper.

Behind the flames there could be seen a cliff, and on the cliff, two figures. One was dressed in all black, his clothes and white and brown hair rushing from the ungodly winds, but his expression- his cold, dead, but intense expression- never changed, never flickered. He watched the massacre completely unmoved. The man beside him was far different. He wore plain jeans and a polo shirt, and his shoulder-length curly blond hair was simply untouched by the whipping winds. On his face, however, was a dark look. His lips were twisted in a humorless, triumphant smile, and his eyes were filled with something like hatred and savage delight at the scene before him. In the photo, he walked away from Christopher, and the small plants he passed shriveled and died ominously in his wake. Christopher remained motionless, his ice-consumed eyes locked immovably on the seen below.

"Damn, you look scary, mate," Ron observed, looking slightly concerned. He and Harry both looked up to see how Chris was taking this news only to find his face very similar to that of his picture's. Cold, hard, and otherwise unreadable.

"…Chris? We know this is old; we're not going to freak out on you, again…" Harry ventured uncertainly, guessing that that might be part of the problem. But Chris didn't even acknowledge his statement. He was staring unresponsively at the picture with something in the very depths of his eyes that bothered Harry- a lot. "Chris?"

The American in question had stood and, without a word to them, walked straight to the staff's table, where Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Flitwick sat, all conversing very quietly. Harry was sure he knew what they were talking about, especially when they stopped as soon as Chris approached.

Without asking, Chris took Snape's vacant seat next to the headmaster and looked straight at Dumbledore, still silent. Dumbledore seemed to get the point, for he sighed heavily and returned Chris' intense gaze with a vaguely cooperative air. And then they began to talk.

"Can you hear what they're saying?" muttered Hermione, trying to listen inconspicuously as she leafed through the continued part of the article.

"No. What else does it say?" Harry replied, looking wistfully at the upper table and wondering why he didn't keep extendable ears on his person at all times.

"Not much," Hermione noted as she continued skimming. "Just how remorseless the killers are, what species they've completely wiped out for refusing to join them… Oh, that's _terrible_… Um… the differences in our magical communities…. Apparently all their witches try to blend in with the Muggles, but they have a magic school, too. I wonder why Chris doesn't go there? Um… nothing else you would find interesting…"

A few minutes passed in which Chris and Dumbledore continued conversing out of earshot. Flitwick and McGonagall would pipe in occasionally, but it was mostly- what appeared to be- a cold conversation between the headmaster and student.

After a length, though, McGonagall and Flitwick stood, presumably to head to their classrooms where class would start in a few minutes. Chris remained just a moment longer to finish their talk, then he, too, rose and walked back to the trio.

"Come on, we're going to be late," was all he said.

"What are you going to do?" asked Harry as the three strode quickly down the corridors, noticing how they were, once again, the last ones not in class.

"Sit through a thousand more classes until my seventeenth birthday. You?"

Harry sighed. So Chris had gone to ask Dumbledore to expel him, yet again. "Doesn't America have a magic school? Couldn't you go there if you hate it so much here?"

Chris gave him sidelong look. "First of all, it was the first place the Source captured when he started taking over, so it's basically a demon-training center, now. Not pretty."

They continued walking for a little while, and Chris made no signs of finishing.

"And?" Hermione prompted expectantly. At Chris' blank look, she elaborated, "You said 'first of all,' as if there's another reason, as well."

"Oh. And my father was the headmaster when it was still run by the Elders," Chris finished plainly before leading the way into Snape's classroom, where he was already taking roll.

Snape tilted a trained eyebrow as he took in their presence. "Ten points from Gryffindor for tardiness," he drawled as they took their seats. After another few moments of taking attendance, Snape set down his list and moved in front of the class, a familiar eerie gleam in his eyes- eyes which seemed to glance in Chris' direction. "Today, we will be discussing hellhounds," he said softly. Instantly, Harry could almost feel a tangible wave of anger and bitterness lash off of Chris, but it was gone in a split second. He glanced over to see Chris' expression was as unreadable as ever, but there was a certain unnerving glow in his eyes as they locked with Snape's. "Does anyone already know what hellhounds are?"

It was clear he was intending for Chris to answer, but the Halliwell's silence went unbroken. After a few seconds, Hermione hesitantly raised her hand.

"They're fiends that, according to Greek mythology, guard the gates of Hell," she answered once he called on her. Her voice quivered slightly, especially when she looked to Chris and he failed to return her gaze. "Um… they're… they're vicious magical hounds that literally- ah- tear victims to shreds and, er, devour them…"

"Correct. Does anyone know what is required in order to summon these hounds?" Snape was watching Chris openly, now, and the rest of the class was whispering to each other; no doubt those who received the _Prophet_ were telling those who didn't what the headline had been this morning, and all were wondering if those dogs in the picture had been hellhounds.

No one had answered the teacher's question. Snape waited until the muttering died down to continue. "It requires a deal with the guardian of condemned souls- an exchange of sorts. The masters lease the hellhounds in return for innocent souls, innocents to be killed and brought to hell by the one borrowing the dogs. Now, does anyone know the last time these hounds were taken from Hell?"

Again, no one answered. Snape and Chris had been having an expressionless contest throughout the explanation, and now Snape continued very quietly, directly to Chris. "Eight months, two weeks, and three days ago. For the first time since year 1232. In the little town of Duluth, Arkansas, Muggles tried to send magic back into the shadows of the world by burning a witch. Now, tell me, class, what message do you think destroying a Muggle town with hellhounds sent to the Muggle community about magic?"

There were a few nervous chuckles scattered unevenly about the room. The Gryffindors, however, were too tense to smile at the irony.

Snape seemed to think he had gotten his point across, for he didn't wait long enough for an answer. He merely assigned the essay they were to complete and walked back to his desk. He didn't look at Chris again.

The class got their essays underway, and the silence thickened as time progressed. Several minutes passed.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Chris were all working quietly, and the awkward tension that had wedged in between them seemed to slowly ease out with the rhythmic scratching of quills and softly scraping page flipping. Harry was just getting comfortable in the altered atmosphere when his thought process did something strange. It flickered randomly to Dumbledore- Dumbledore sitting behind his desk just after the Department of Mysteries incident.

Harry frowned, wondering at the randomness of it. Then he got back to his essay.

Several more silent minutes passed, but Harry found that he could concentrate less and less. He just couldn't stop himself from thinking about the Department of Mysteries, how he had been lured there so easily to fall right into the trap… And then there was the prophecy. But he stopped himself from thinking about that. He didn't completely understand why, but he knew he couldn't think about the prophecy at the moment. He tried, frustrated, to get back to work on his essay.

Chris glanced up from his paper to give Harry a look- a look Harry couldn't read. Just as Harry was about the mouth the word, '_What_?' Chris returned his attention to his essay, still with that infuriatingly unreadable expression.

Harry rolled his eyes, a bit irritated with his lack of attention span and Chris' unrelenting weirdness, and, for the rest of the period, he tried in vain to accomplish some work.

When class was finally over, Chris was gone so fast, he just seemed to have vanished. Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared concerned looks, and Harry found himself still having difficulty as he tried to focus on what Hermione was saying.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"I saw the paper."

Chris glanced up to find Sirius Black leaning against the corridor a few feet in front of him, true to his word, holding a rolled up copy of the _Morning Prophet_ at his side.

"I suppose that explains why your Elder of a father wants nothing to do with you anymore. I was wondering about that when I went to see him," Sirius continued, his visage not angry or accusing, but interested. Curious.

Chris threw him a foul look and kept walking. "You spoke to my father?" he couldn't help but repeat when Sirius made it clear he wasn't leaving any time soon.

Sirius nodded thoughtfully. "He left before we really said anything. I just asked him if he was related to you-" here, Chris snorted humorlessly, "-and he never actually answered. I guess he doesn't want people to know he raised _Lord Christopher_, huh?"

Chris rolled his eyes and responded dryly, but with a hint of bitterness, "Oh, trust me, he has nothing to be ashamed of. He'd actually have to be _involved_ in order for him to _raise _me. On that account, his name is clean. You'd think he would denounce Wyatt more than me, though, since he actually had a hand in _that_."

Sirius' expression became confused. He reached to open his paper, clearly asking.

"Yeah, Lord Wyatt, Source of all Evil," Chris clarified, saving Sirius the trouble of finding words.

"Why would _your_ father…?" Sirius still floundered, bewildered.

"He's Wyatt's dad more than he is _mine_," Chris snapped, annoyed at the emphasis the whitelighter had put on 'your.' When Sirius continued to gape at him, Chris stopped, also a bit lost. Then it struck him. "You… didn't know Wyatt's my brother? _Seriously_?"

Slowly, mutely, Sirius shook his head. Chris blinked.

"Duh, man. Duh," Chris sighed, exasperated. He shook his head. "Some whitelighter, aren't you?"

Sirius opened his mouth to retort, but stopped himself abruptly. "Look, Chris. I know what that's like," he voiced instead, quiet enough to actually surprise Chris. "My brother was a Death Eater. My whole family thought Voldemort was doing the world a favor, killing Muggles and Muggle-borns…"

Chris was silent for a moment, genuinely taken aback by this soft admittance. After a moment, he replied just as quietly. "Sucks, doesn't it? But somehow, I doubt you ever succumbed to them… like I did," he added even quieter, even more self-depreciating.

Sirius smiled wryly. "I didn't kill people, no. But I had to learn curses and morals that really made my time with other Gryffindors extremely hard- _especially_ since Black was a famous last name for my family of dark wizards. For most of my first year,_ no one _would talk to me." Here, he smiled sympathetically. "No one can blame you, Chris. Obviously, Wyatt is extremely powerful, and clearly you were very close… No one can blame you."

"No, no one can blame me," Chris agreed softly as they rounded another deserted corner, "But no one can be proud of me, either."

Sirius had no response to that. He just nodded in understanding and asked quietly, "So what finally changed so that you decided to leave?"

Chris gave him a sidelong look. "What makes you think _anything_ changed?"

Sirius stared at him, suddenly uncertain. "Um… well…because…"

"So you're saying you're still the same _Lord Christopher_?" inquired a new voice, and James materialized next to Sirius, looking a _lot_ more judgmental than his old friend. He crossed his arms, his countenance determined and utterly unimpressed. "_Well_?"

"James, what are you- what-?" Sirius sputtered, actually appearing angry at his friend.

He was _almost_ as angry as Chris.

"What the fuck gave you the right to listen in on our conversation?" he demanded, irate. Not only, he suddenly realized, had he been stupid by speaking honestly to the Sirius Black guy, he had been careless and let someone spy on them. So, obviously, he was pissed. "You _son of a bitch_, why can't you just leave- me- _alone_! I haven't done _anything_-"

"Beside, you know, slaughter the town of Duluth, of course…"

The look Chris gave him wiped the unsympathetic carelessness right off James' face. The whitelighter actually took a step back before he realized he was backing away from a mere teenager.

"Look, Christopher, I was going to give you a chance, I really was, but after _this_-" he brandished Sirius' newspaper, "-you are insane if you think I'll let you near my son without me on your-"

"James, _you_ are the one being ridiculous," Sirius interrupted, brushing James' anger off like an annoying fly. "This kid isn't going to kill Harry, and you'll never figure out what he's even _thinking_ about doing if you keep being such an _ass_-"

"Just shut up," Chris snapped, not caring to see them go at it. "For all I know, y'all could have been in this little misadventure together. Whatever. I don't care. Just get lost, now. I am _so_ tired of you both."

He started to walk away when they both began to protest vehemently. He swung around, and practically yelled, "Just- shut- up! I've had a fucking horrible day, so just _leave me alone_!"

"Chris-"

"I don't care! I _so_ don't care. You're just-" Chris froze in place, his eyes completely zoning out in a single split second. He felt a presence in his mind, and the idea of that alone choked the rest of his thoughts to silence. It choked all thoughts but one. "_Harry_," he breathed then took off at a sprint to where he sensed Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

In a distant recess of his mind, he realized saying 'Harry' in a fearful voice in front of the boy's father was not the brightest thing to do. But that didn't matter, now, for the trio was in sight, and they all appeared more than a little concerned about something.

"Harry, put up a wall- _now_!" he called by way of greeting when he got close enough.

They looked up in surprise. "Chris? Wha--"

"Voldemort is Legimen-…thingy through the barriers. He's looking for you, Harry, now _put up a wall_."

"We know," said Hermione shakily. "Harry's scar just started hurting…"

"I've got a wall," said Harry with a slight grimace, and Chris empathically felt the throbbing pain from his scar. "But I can't feel him like I could when you…" his voice drifted off, and Chris waited anxiously for him to give some clue about what was happening.

"Harry?"

Harry, without warning, cried out in pain and clutched his head. He folded to his knees, his face screwed up in anguish.

Without thinking, Chris dropped to his knees and put his fingers to Harry's temple. Before anyone could so much as move, he entered Harry's mind and saw the red-eyed snake tearing through the forefront of Harry's mind, lashing violently at the bright magenta Concern Harry had solidified into a wall. Chris glared, forcing the snake to stop and look at him.

It went hurtling into nothingness as soon as it did.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry gasped as the hallway instantly came back into view. Vaguely, he was aware of Chris sitting less than a meter in front of him. Why were they on the floor, again?

In less than a second, it all flooded back to him. He sighed and held his head in his hands, letting himself breathe for a moment.

"Thanks," he said blandly. "That could have been bad."

Chris just gave a short nod in acknowledgement. After a while, he commented, "That was good, you know, for a first real trial. You could have thrown him out without me."

Harry nodded, not really agreeing but too tired to do anything else. "So was that it?" he queried, unsure why he got the feeling something more should have happened.

Slowly, Chris shook his head. "No. I can still feel him waiting for another shot. We need to get to Dumbledore."

"To see if he knows Voldemort's here? Well, mentally, at least," Harry added, as an afterthought.

"…No…" Chris said slowly as he got to his feet. "…In case it gets as bad as I think it will. He's regrouping with Wyatt."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

**A/N: **Thank you everyone that reviewed! They've been brightening my whole month and a half that I haven't updated- lol. Seriously, though, thank you, everyone. Each and every review made me feel guilty that I haven't updated in forever. So here's what my lovely, freaking awesome readers and reviewers get- **some extra story time!!**:

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

The quartet was in Dumbledore's office in record-breaking time, and Chris explained the situation with his wonderfully unique oratory skills.

"Voldemort and Wyatt are going to screw your kids' heads over if we don't get some more powerful mental barriers up in two minutes, flat, old man."

Dumbledore blinked at the sudden intrusion and statement. "Yes, Chris, I know," he said once he had collected himself. "I was just contacting the teachers to help with some rather demanding enchantments. You're welcome to help, of course."

Chris nodded. "What did you have in mind?"

"I'm preparing the Divinity of Passage ritual and, alas, the Mendicant's spell."

Chris processed the information without a problem, then couldn't help but snicker. "You are _so_ doing the ritual alone… unless _McGonagall_ wants to get involved in that…"

"I've got no idea what that ritual thingy is, but I can tell this is not the time for whatever you just said, Chris," Harry said rather snappishly as he kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. "Please, focus. I can feel both of their attention on me…"

At this, Chris winced sympathetically. "Ah, disturbing sensation, isn't it?"

"_Profoundly_."

Chris nodded, getting his thoughts back on track. "Alright, the Divinity of Passage might work, but you'll need a virgin to light the candles, and I don't know where you'll find one of those…"

All four wizards and witch stared at him. He blinked.

"Oh. Right. School. Ha ha. Anyways… um, cough… there's no guarantee the Mendicant's spell will work, but I can get started on that one while you work out the ritual… with McGonagall and a virgin," Chris added with a playful twinkle in his eyes.

Dumbledore actually rolled his eyes.

Hermione frowned uncertainly. "I _was_ going to volunteer… but what _exactly_ would I have to do?"

While Chris laughed, Dumbledore explained patiently, "You would only have to light seven candles, Miss Granger, and then you could leave. _Christopher_ here was just trying to make you assume falsely that you would also be involved in the nudity required in a later portion of the ritual- and it is not sexual in the least, _I assure you_, and as Chris _already knows_. It is a dignified part of natural magic."

Chris held up his hands in surrender at the onslaught of pointed hints. "Hey, man, I'm _allowed_ to make fun of it. My aunts thought I needed a lesson in natural magic when I was ten- _ten!_, so they decided to get my grandmother _and_ great-grandmother together with us so we could do the _Jit-Mun-Jay _ritual. I was scarred for life- _scarred_," he emphasized when Dumbledore appeared to be holding back a great laugh. And then the headmaster did laugh. Chris glared. "-_SCARRED_."

"The Jip man Jew?" asked Harry, temporarily forgetting the unsound feeling of the Dark Lords' attention on him because of the strange conversation going on around him. He had never actually seen the headmaster laugh aloud, he realized distantly.

When it became apparent Chris wasn't going to explain- he was sitting petulantly with his arms crossed, having been laughed at- Dumbledore conceded to explain, still chuckling, "Well, let's just say it's not a ritual I would have chosen for a _first-timer_-" Chris scowled at his wording, "-to demonstrate natural magic. Regardless, it is a rather _active_ ritual…" Here, Dumbledore had to duck to avoid the flying lamp.

"Chris!" Hermione gasped, astonished that he had deliberately thrown something at their headmaster. Chris raised an eyebrow as if to ask her what she wanted. She merely sighed. "_Anyway_, I can definitely light candles for the protection of the school, Professor."

Dumbledore smiled. "Splendid. Let's get started immediately, shall we?"

However, they could not get started immediately, for, at that moment, Harry gasped sharply and crumpled to the ground, eyes wide open… but vacant.

Hermione screamed.

**

* * *

A/N: **I'll update sooner next time, I promise. Thank you everyone for reading, and I'll love those who review forever!!! Cyber Starbucks coffee to all!! 


	20. Of Mind Power

**Chapter 20: Of Mind Power**

_However, they could not get started immediately, for, at that moment, Harry gasped sharply and crumpled to the ground, eyes wide open… but vacant._

_Hermione screamed._

Pain. Dull, throbbing red pain in every particle of his being, until, suddenly, it would be pierced by a lightning strike of icy white agony, leaving him curled up in the black abyss just wishing this nightmare of nothingness would go away.

It was constant. It was all. It was absolutely nothing. Harry had no idea what was going on; he had no idea how long he had been drifting or sitting or standing in this black space tormented by things he couldn't see, or things he _felt_ in agonizing colors. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It was as though all his senses had been overloaded and nothing was being received the way humans were meant to receive them. All Harry really knew was that it hurt, so, so badly. He had no idea what was going on, but he wanted it to end.

His mind just couldn't take it, but he had no control. He couldn't even feel if he had a body in this place. He didn't know if his eyes were opened or closed, or _where_ the pain was being felt, he just _was_. It was killing him, and he could do nothing, for there was nothing to do. The icy white lightning kept striking.

_Think_.

The unfamiliar voice came out of nowhere, and, suddenly, he was sitting on a bench in a huge, deserted building. Harry blinked, and as he looked, he became more confused. It looked strikingly similar to King's Cross station, but there were no trains…

"The adults, your friends, and Christopher are trying everything to keep me and Riddle out, you know," said the voice calmly, and Harry bolted to his feet, his hand reaching for his wand in less than a second only to find it wasn't there. Now that he thought about it, he saw that he was wearing Muggle clothes, his Hogwarts robes nowhere in sight. _Where was his wand? What was going on?_

Sitting on the bench right next to Harry's former spot was the blond-haired, blue-eyed Source of all Evil, smirking easily at Harry's obvious alarm. "What do you need a wand for? This is your mind. You can do whatever you want with just a thought."

Harry frowned and took a few cautious steps around Lord Wyatt, whose eyes followed his movements with a strange, knowing gleam. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickled.

"You're Lord Wyatt. The Source of all Evil," he said with more self-certainty than he felt. "What do you want with me?"

Wyatt leaned back against the bench casually, his disturbing blue eyes never leaving Harry. "Absolutely nothing," he responded simply.

Harry blinked and tried to arrange himself to look more in-control. "So… so what's going on? Why are you here? Where _is_ here?"

The Source actually smiled, and Harry felt cold goosebumps wash over his skin in reaction. Maybe it hadn't been the most intelligent move to question this evil guy about… _anything_. But what could the Source do? It was, as he had pointed out, Harry's mind. Did he, too, have power at a mere thought?

"Calm down," Lord Wyatt drawled in a way that reminded him vaguely of Penny Halliwell. Harry had to suppress that thought for its sheer randomness. "Riddle found a way to get through the barriers around that school, so he had to test it and went on to develop this elaborate plan and all that jazz. I just came along for the ride."

Again, Harry blinked. What on earth was he supposed to say to that? He had no idea what he was supposed to do. Was he supposed to try and fight the guy? After all, he was evil, but so far, he was just _calm_. Normal, even. Harry was at a loss.

"So… Voldemort. Doing well, is he?"

"Ah, you know," the blond shrugged. "A bit moody whenever your name pops up, extremely freakin' uptight, but besides that, we get along decently. Dumbledore?"

"Good, he's very good."

The Source now smiled, as though thinking of something far more interesting than Dumbledore. "So, just what is it about you, kid?" he queried with that unnerving smile. "Dumbledore and Christopher both keep you under a very close watch, you know. Voldemort has been scheming and scheming and they just keep throwing him off… Why does he want you _so bad_?"

Harry, once again, blinked. "Chris has been, too? How? _Why_?"

Wyatt arched an eyebrow, seemingly getting quite a kick out of this conversation. "My, my. Questions, questions, questions. Do they tell you nothing?" When Harry glared coldly in response, the Source's smile broadened. "I see. Yes, I think you'll find that Christopher is very protective of his friends, you know, seeing as I keep killing them and all."

Harry could not help himself as he scoffed, "Must not be doing a very good job of it, then, is he?"

He hadn't meant for it to be funny at all, but apparently Wyatt had an odd sense of humor, for he laughed so hard and suddenly, he was snorting. Harry stared. It was one of the strangest sights he thought he'd ever seen- the Source of all Evil, in his bright yellow and green polo shirt and khaki cargo pants, laughing his rear off like he was a kid because he had killed some people.

After a moment, however, the laughter died down and Wyatt asked fondly, wiping a tear from his eye, "Ah, my. I think I'm going through withdrawal from his sarcasm… but yeah. I've been sending spies and such every week, but as soon as they even _think_ of screwing their cover, Chris-" he made a violent hand motion and Harry got the general idea. The evil one shook his head- almost… fondly. "Damn, he's good. Always has been, though he wasn't even allowed to use magic for _years_… I really miss having him on my side…"

Harry nodded cautiously, afraid to say anything else for fear of another strange reaction, which might not be as harmless again.

The Source seemed to consider something for a moment, a pensive look sweeping his countenance. After several seconds, he asked calmly, "What did he think of the paper, today? It wasn't distributed in the US, but demons will have seen it, anyway. They'll be after him like all Hell broke loose, now…" He actually had the briefest hint of concern in his tone.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in place, wondering how much he could divulge with the enemy. Why was he talking to him in the first place, again?

He didn't have to struggle with the question for long, however, for Voldemort appeared at that very instant in all his furious glory, and pressure exploded on every side of Harry. He dropped to the ground like a marionette whose strings were cut… as the train station faded into nothing more real than a dream.

Everything was black again, but this time Harry was vaguely aware of something moving, even through his agony.

Voldemort… Voldemort was tearing through his memories, leaving them in a battered and broken state like a rabid dragon had gotten hold of them, and Harry could distantly _feel_ them breaking. The intense anguish of it all was unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

Unable to think, unable to breathe, Harry felt himself curl up in the nothingness, though he didn't even remember if he had a body. He screwed his eyes shut tightly, just trying to will it all away. He couldn't take any more.

…_You'__ve got to fight, Harry… fight, Harry… fight, Harry…_

The words echoed faintly throughout the empty abyss, but Harry couldn't distinguish a voice. He could barely distinguish the _words_ through his screaming suffering…

…_Fight, Harry…_

Eternities passed.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Dumbledore sighed and shut the door behind Ron and Hermione before they had time to change their minds again. It had taken all the persuasive power he possessed to convince them to take a break, get some food, and freshen up a bit; he was utterly exhausted from this entire situation, and he needed a moment in private to just think.

He sat down at his previous spot between Harry and Chris' beds in the hospital wing and removed his half-moon spectacles to rub the bridge of his long, crooked nose, just so completely exhausted.

After several seconds of keeping his twinkle-less blue eyes closed, he opened them and stared grimly at the two boys before him.

Harry was in the most visible pain; every muscle in his body was tense and strained, and he tossed and writhed every few minutes as though being attacked by an invisible assailant- which everyone knew was exactly the cause.

The only difference in Chris, however, was his paleness. As usual, his expression was unfathomable, and he was completely still- both of which were causing Madam Pomphrey extreme grief ("For goodness sake, Albus, how am I supposed to know how much pain reliever to give him? And he's so still, he might die and I'd not notice!").

Dumbledore, once again, held his head in his hands, replaying the events over in his mind for the thousandth time, trying to think of something else, some other solution or angle he hadn't thought of before. But, of course, he came up empty handed.

As soon as Harry had hit the floor in his office, Chris had dropped to the Potter's side and, with a only a brief, knowing glance in Dumbledore's direction, had entered Harry's mind as well.

That had been two days ago. Within that time, Dumbledore and the staff had performed countless spells, enchantments, and rituals to try and dislodge the evil ones from the students' minds, but to no effect. Dumbledore himself had entered into the mental battle for a few moments only to find the stress of another presence too much for Harry to bear.

So all he could do now was sit and wait. There were no new spells, wards, or even potions he knew of that could possibly be of use…

And then he noticed a very faint motion from Chris. His eyes sought out the cause, only to find a light stream of crimson trickling from the boy's nose. He still wasn't moving, otherwise.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry didn't know how long it had been since the train station. He didn't know how long it had been since he was in Dumbledore's office; he had lost all perception of feeling, of sight, of _existing_… Until the voice came again.

_You've got to fight, Harry. Please. …fight, Harry… please… You've got to fight, Harry. Don't give up… You can't give up… Don't give up… you can't give up…_

It was the same voice… but it wasn't the same. It sounded drained… weaker… like it was telling him to fight because it couldn't any more… And it was so familiar… so familiar…

Suddenly, Harry felt as if something had grabbed him around his entire upper torso and jerked him viciously forward, and the next thing he knew, he was standing back at the King's Cross station, but in a slight alcove, separated from the rest of the station. And right in front of him was Chris, leaning back on the wall as though it were the only thing supporting him. He looked entirely drained, his whole demeanor tense yet weakened.

"Harry, we don't have long, now- you've got to throw them out while they're still preparing… we don't have much longer…" he said by way of greeting, and his voice matched The Voice perfectly.

Harry blinked and shook his head. "Chris, what are you talking about? What are you doing here?"

Chris' eyes closed tightly. He looked like he was in intense pain and trying only half-heartedly to hide it. "They're still testing the grounds, getting ready for the real strike," he explained, his voice taut. "I can't keep holding them back, Harry…"

"You're-- how long have you been… helping me?" Harry asked, just beginning to understand what Chris was doing. "And why are you hiding over here?" he added, casting a glance around the corner to where the main expanse of the station was. It was deserted.

Chris grimaced and chose to ignore the first question. "They can't know I'm helping you, or they'll focus on separating us and taking us out individually. If they think you alone are putting up this fight, they won't try it a second time…"

"So _you_ alone are putting up this fight?" Harry asked, feeling a pang of guilt that he couldn't help in this mental struggle with his limited Occlumency skills.

At this, Chris looked at him as though he were insane. "Of course not… I'm just blocking the pain so you can concentrate on blocking your memories… I couldn't take _both_ of them alone. Jesus." He rolled his eyes, but suddenly stopped as he realized something. A smirk found its way onto his lips. "I don't know what Snape was talking about. You're such a natural you didn't even realize you were going it…"

Harry blinked. He was blocking his memories from the dark lords? That was a relief…

"But, as much teamwork as is going on here," Chris continued, gritting his teeth audibly as a new pain seemingly made its way to him, "_you're_ the only one that can actually throw them out, and you better do it fast. I may be pretty freaking good, but everyone has a limit, and spending a day or so inside someone else's head and deal with all _their_ mental barriers is pretty much mine…"

"I- I don't know how," Harry stammered, glancing around them as the walls started shaking slightly. "I can't feel them like I could when you…" his voice drifted off when the floor began shuddering as well. He glanced to Chris in confusion.

"You just have to throw something at them," Chris ground out, sinking further down the wall. "Just knock the hell out of them, Harry… Trust me, you can."

Harry nodded, setting his jaw in determination. Throw something at them, exactly like he and Chris practiced. Easy.

So, that's when the concrete walls shattered like glass, and the floor broke in two like a china plate.

Harry dropped to the ground as stone slabs, mortar, and debris flew around him like a hurricane. He shielded his head and tried to squint through it to find the cause only to notice that Chris had vanished from his side.

Before he could call out to the nonexistent comrade, The Voice whispered faintly around him,

_Just remember, Harry… it's _your_ head…. They are nothing here…_

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Dumbledore shot to Chris' side and immediately checked his pulse, but he needn't have bothered. Chris' eyes snapped open, but fluttered wearily once he was conscious.

"What happened, Chris?" the headmaster asked, but put a hand on the youth's shoulder when he attempted to sit up. Chris flinched sharply, even in his groggy state. Dumbledore instantly took back his hand. "Just calm down, my boy. Breathe…. Better? Now, what happened? Is Harry…?" _Alright? Dead? _Dumbledore couldn't bring himself to voice either. He watched Chris' face carefully for any sign of remembrance.

Chris took a deep breath, seeming to steady himself, and closed his eyes again. Before Dumbledore could even think of objecting, he knew Chris was back with Harry.

The old man sighed. Chris was apparently killing himself but had only resurfaced to breathe, and then went right back to the front lines. Dumbledore waved his wand, and the blood vanished from the teenager's face. He stood to get another vial of pain-relieving potion.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

As the dust and debris began to settle, Harry got back to his feet and straightened to his full height, trying to convince himself he had more confidence and understanding in the situation than he did.

He thought, distantly, that it was strange that when he saw the glinting scarlet eyes piercing him through the destruction, he felt the nervousness leave him, to be replaced by the actual confidence he tried to portray.

This was _his_ mind. Voldemort had _no_ right to be here. The confidence turned into determination, and his eyes glinted more strikingly than Voldemort's as he knew what he had to do.

"You're not welcome here," Harry whispered, and his voice carried easily. "And you will _never_ come back."

Voldemort's lips twisted into a heart-freezing smile. "And you think you have the power to stop me? You are pathetic, Potter. Not even in your own mind could you even _imagine_ overpowering me. Now, surrender the prophecy, and I will consider sparing your sanity."

He advanced slowly, predatorily, towards the scarred boy, seemingly fully assured of his superiority.

"You're right, this is my mind," snarled Harry, feeling the possessiveness roll over him like a tidal wave of heat. There were things Voldemort was not allowed to touch, and his mind, his emotions and memories, fell into that limitation. He had been possessed once, in the Ministry, and that would never happen again. He and Chris had come so far in their lessons, he couldn't let this happen. It was going to end, fast. "And I have a very vivid imagination."

He pulled for emotions to use as walls, and instantly, those memories flared into the hovering dust surrounding them like scattered movie projections, but that whipped around so fast, so randomly, it would have been impossible for anyone other than himself to understand them.

And then he had it.

It was a seemingly inconsequential memory, but it was comforting and, therein, powerful in this alien struggle.

It was just a night in the Gryffindor common room. Harry and Hermione were chatting while writing essays for Charms, and Chris and Ron were playing Wizarding Chess for the thousandth time. Chris, his first time playing this Wizard's version, had beaten Ron in a mere four moves, and Ron had been demanding rematches all night. Even though it might have seemed like desperation to some, they could all three see the pleasure in Ron's eyes as he finally played someone good enough to provide a challenge. It was just fantastic, how _normal_ and contented the night was.

Harry closed his eyes as he took the emotion, the comfort and peacefulness, and let it consume him. An unnatural wind picked up, and Harry could _feel_ Voldemort's sudden confusion from across the corridor. Uncertainty mingled into it.

Harry opened his eyes, which immediately locked with Voldemort's, and smiled.

He threw the wall of memory, of emotion, at the dark lord with all the strength he possessed and watched as it made contact.

Voldemort vanished in a howl of fury, and Harry felt himself sinking, fading in its wake….

…

White. He saw bright whiteness. And felt- he felt himself lying on something comfortable and soft. He blinked several times, and, slowly, the room came into focus.

The hospital wing. He frowned and groggily tried to recall what was going on. Of course, it all came flooding back to him in seconds, and he groaned tiredly.

"Good morning," said a quiet voice to his right. He blinked over to that direction groggily and found Dumbledore smiling down at him, looking so pleased that Harry, in his grumpy, sleep-deprived mood, almost rolled over to turn his back on him. Luckily, he managed to suppress the urge. "It appears you have just gained undeniable proof against Professor Snape regarding your Occlumency abilities. Congratulations."

He was smiling kindly, so Harry just accepted whatever on earth he was talking about without giving a response.

"What happened? How long have I been…?" he managed sleepily after a few more moments of quiet.

"You have been fighting the mental forces of Voldemort and the Source for almost three days, now, Harry," Dumbledore answered gently. "I believe you have succeeded in dislodging him from your mind before he could inflict serious damage. All with the assistance of our young Chris, I'm sure," he added, casting an equally pleased glance in the direction of the bed behind him.

Still stiff and slow with tiredness, Harry inched up to see behind the old headmaster. Sure enough, it was occupied by his American friend, but he was still unconscious. Harry's brow furrowed and he tried to think. Chris wasn't still in his mind, he confirmed, so what…? He frowned in concern, but his mind was too tired to construct any reasons about why Chris hadn't also woken up.

"You must understand, Harry, that Chris' consciousness has been inside your mind and not his own- for almost three days without any sort of preparation Voldemort and the Source may have had," Dumbledore explained, clearly seeing Harry's confusion. "The mind is not made to do such things without some sort of measures taken in advance, as I'm sure you can well imagine."

"'S he going to be okay?" Harry practically slurred as his head began sinking back into the pillow, his eyelids as heavy as lead.

"He's just resting, my dear boy," Dumbledore smiled gently. "Further discussion of the days' events can resume tomorrow. You should get some rest, as well."

He needn't have said it, though, for Harry was deep asleep before he even finished the sentence.

Dumbledore chuckled very softly to himself, absolutely bubbling over with joy at the children's accomplishment. They had bested the two most prominent dark lords of the century on the spur of the moment- when they were a mere sixteen years old, too! It was astounding; better than Dumbledore could have ever hoped for. The passion they both had for the war- for the _cause_- for their _friends_, was amazing. It almost made Dumbledore want to cry, just being here with them. _So amazing_.

As he was letting this relief and happiness roll over him, he did not notice a new presence enter the room, until that presence spoke.

"Hello, Albus."

And Dumbledore smiled upon hearing the quiet but familiar voice. "I would ask what you're doing here," the headmaster responded before he even turned around, "but with the present company, I suppose it seems quite obvious."

Then, he stood and turned to embrace his old student and friend. "James, my old boy. And how are Lily and Sirius?"

James returned the embrace, his expression taut with suppressed tears, and Dumbledore understood. It was strange, almost surreal to see James Potter standing right in front of him again, not looking a day older than the last time they had spoken- which had been almost sixteen years ago. The sense of surrealism only increased when the father moved instinctively next to his son's bedside and gazed down upon him, his hazel eyes filled with the simplest, purest paternal love that Harry would never see.

Dumbledore, sensing that James wasn't just here to stare at Harry, moved up beside him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. James didn't look up.

"He'll be perfectly restored in no more than a day or two, James," Dumbledore explained softly. "You needn't worry about him."

"I'm his father, Albus. I've always worried about him," said James, just as quiet. However, he did finally look up, if only to let his eyes fall on the only other occupied bed. "It's Chris I think I should be paying some attention to, now."

When Dumbledore frowned, querying, at this statement, James moved around to the other bed and explained in the same tone, "I was angry with him, accusing him of still being _Lord Christopher_, all just seconds before he disappeared to save my son. That's… I just don't see how I can ask him to forgive me."

"I think," said Dumbledore with a hint of a smile, "you'll find Chris is a far more forgiving person than he may appear. He's just a child, James."

"Well, he doesn't act like it," James returned, somewhat bitterly. Before the professor could respond, though, he asked rather blankly, "Will he be alright?"

Dumbledore studied James, whose expression was still curiously suppressed, before answering. "I believe so," he began slowly. "He may take a little longer than Harry, since he fought a battle beyond his natural limits, but, if I know Chris, he will make it through."

James gave a single nod, still watching the unconscious Halliwell. "It was his brother that did this? To Harry- and to him?"

Dumbledore nodded once, also looking down at Chris.

James' shoulders sagged fractionally, taking this news like it was incomprehensible. "I lived during the school days of Sirius and Regulus, and even _I_ don't understand how brothers could do this to each other. How did they _come_ to this? I mean, they were together, according to the paper. What… what…?" his voice trailed off and he glanced back to Dumbledore's face, trying to find the words. But his question was clear, anyway.

The headmaster sighed softly and considered the boy on the bed for several moments before deciding on a response. He answered slowly, thoughtfully, "Chris is a natural at evading questions, James. The most I could ever get out of him is that manipulation was the only thing holding them on the same side after Wyatt turned. And as much regret and guilt as he feels, Chris recognizes that they're still brothers. He refuses to fight him to kill."

James' eyes distanced as he took in the information, and Dumbledore recognized the look from the man's school days. It gave him a strange, lukewarm sort of chill at the reminder.

"So what do I do? How do I deal with this?" James broke off the professor's train of thought before it could get far. "I either treat him like he's Harry, or like he's a jackass adult. I don't… I don't know how…"

"Treat him as an equal, James," said Dumbledore quietly. "Your specific relationship will just have to develop from there. I've been having tea or playing cards with him almost every night for several months, and I'm still struggling to find where to stand with him."

Again, even though James nodded, he seemed to be gazing a thousand miles away as he digested the information.

After a minute, however, James' head snapped up and he seemed to listen to something beyond Dumbledore's range of perception. His eyes moved back to Dumbledore, though, and he presently said, "I've got to go. The Elders are calling an emergency whitelighter meeting." He managed to smile gravely as he grasped Dumbledore's shoulder in a friendly, familiar way. "It was good seeing you again, Albus," he spoke sincerely.

Dumbledore returned the gesture with a smile and twinkling gaze of his own. "And I imagine it won't be the last time, my dear son. Take care."

James nodded once and, with the fixed somber smile, he orbed away.

* * *

**A/N: So, I tried to make this chapter more about Harry than Chris, since I've got SO MUCH Chris. How'd I do?**

**Anyways, thank you everyone who reviewed! You guys are freaking awesome!!! I force Chris to hug you all!**


	21. Of Nothing At All

**Disclaimer: Standard**

**Chapter 21: Of Nothing At All**

"I don't remember much, Professor. At least, not much that could help."

"That's fine, Harry. Just tell me again what you know."

Harry took a moment to collect his thoughts, which were really just vague shards of memories, before he told Dumbledore his tale for the fifth time. The urgency and repetition was because Chris hadn't woken up, and it had been almost a week since they had gotten out of the battle.

"I didn't see him but once. I just heard his voice, telling me to fight and never give up," the Potter began, his tone distant as he went through the memory in his mind. "Then I was back at the train station and he was there, but he looked extremely bad off, Professor. He told me they couldn't know he was there, or they would try separating us, so it was all up to me to get them out. But he was doing something…. It was really helping me, I think, but hurting him. I don't remember, sir. I'm sorry."

"It's alright, my boy. What happened next?"

"Next… the walls exploded and he disappeared, but I could still _feel_ him with me, in a manner of speaking. It was like he was …influencing me somehow," Harry continued, floundering a bit for the words. "I just _knew_ what I had to do to throw Voldemort out, and then I felt so… so _angry_ at Voldemort for being in my mind. It helped, but it wasn't me. I would have been determined or resolved or something, and I was that, too- but the anger just wasn't mine."

Dumbledore nodded in understanding and prompted Harry on, again.

"And… then I found a good memory and threw it at Voldemort. That's when I woke up here." Harry's lips twisted into a wry expression. "I'm sorry that doesn't help much, sir."

"No, Harry, it helps," said Dumbledore firmly. "It tells us that Chris was strong enough to guide you unto the very moment you won. It proves he was not completely without power, himself."

"So… so he's still just… sleeping?" Harry implied dubiously. It was the same conclusion they had reached with every conversation. Harry, himself, was still catching up on rest- under the nurse's orders alone, though. He had hoped to sneak that into this conversation; he was absolutely sick of laying in bed all day, literally 24-7.

"My guess," Dumbledore continued, unwittingly interrupting Harry's scheming, "is that the only actual rest he gets are the times he is knocked unconscious. That isn't a whole terribly lot, I suppose, after continuing for several years."

"You mean that curse about the nightmares?"

"I do," Dumbledore confirmed calmly.

Harry sighed. "I guess that makes sense, professor."

Dumbledore opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off abruptly by a strange but familiar ringing, coming from Chris' direction. His cell phone.

After a brief, amused glance at Harry, Dumbledore reached out and took the phone from Chris' jacket pocket. It was odd, but the old wizard got the distinct feeling that this call shouldn't be missed.

He flipped it open, very familiar with the nifty Muggle device, and answered brightly, "Chris' phone, Professor Dumbledore speaking."

Dumbledore saw out of the corner of his eye Harry suppressing a laugh at the oddity of the sight.

"Uh, is Chris not available?" a very confused male voice asked loudly, but it was still hardly distinguishable over the talking and noise in the background. Suddenly, there was a very distinct BANG, and much swearing followed.

"No, he is quite unconscious at the moment. Could I, perhaps, take a message?" Dumbledore responded pleasantly, wondering if this was the almost-infamous Joden, from the Resistance. His brow furrowed in concern when the explosions continued.

"Um… You're a professor at the school, right?" he asked with something like mildly bashful thoughtfulness. At Dumbledore's confirmation, he continued in the same tone. "So… that would make you an intelligent, experienced individual, correct?"

"Correct…" said Dumbledore, smiling but slightly confused.

"So, you know, if I had a- uh- _theoretical_- situation I needed-uh- theoretical help with, you might be able to offer, um, much appreciated service?" he finished brightly, even as Dumbledore heard more explosions in the background.

Dumbledore chuckled at the transparency of the lie. "Yes, I suppose I could. _Theoretically_, of course."

"Wonderful!" The young man's enthusiasm practically bubbled over the mouthpiece of the phone. "Okay, um, what would you say to three individuals locked in a- er- _energy room_- with a single exit, which would be- of course- blocked by middle level demons, a few Cyclopes, and- YO, DUNCAN! WHAT'D YOU SAY THOSE THINGS WITH THE THINGS AND THAT STUFF WERE CALLED? CHUPACK- CHUPACK-UHBRA? CHUPACABRA? OKAY, THANKS, MAN!- and Chupacabras?"

There was another, much closer explosion.

Dumbledore frowned quizzically. "Well, fire or bright light of some sort would take care of the Chupacabras, but Cyclopes are excellent blacksmiths, so fire wouldn't be anything to them. Try to unbalance them; they're quite a bit like turtles on their backs when they're down. The demons, however, are not my area of expertise."

"Oh, we were thinking the regular athame in the throat for them-- um, _theoretically_, that is. Haha. Of course. So high voltage electricity sparks would work on the Choopackabras and, um, there's a car over there to knock the Cyclopes on their-"

"CHUPACABRA, JODEN! CHU-PUH-CAH-BRUH!" a female voice yelled in the background, sounding beyond annoyed. "AND GET THAT LEVER BEFORE THAT THINGY IT'S HOLDING CRUSHES US!"

"Hey, I'm allowed to mess up names!" responded Joden, sounding indignant even as Dumbledore heard the tell-tale signs of him running, probably to get the lever that was holding the thingy. "Privilege of the non-magical. I'm proud of myself for even recognizing the Cyclopes on my own!"

There was laughter at this, and Dumbledore felt his confusion return. There were non-magical people fighting the war in the Resistance? -How was that in the least bit safe?

"Anyways, thanks, man- I mean, uh, _professor_," Joden was saying again. "So is Chris sick or just unconscious for the usual miscellaneous reasons? I mean, he never told us why he didn't come back Friday night or anything…"

"He's just a little under the weather and is sleeping it off," Dumbledore replied vaguely, glad that they were at least concerned for him. "Should I give him a message when he wakes?"

"Um… yeah, please tell him that if he doesn't get well soon and call us, we'll send him a ton of singing chocolates and entire bushes of flowers and embarrass the hell out of him in other varying ways. I could list some more, if you want to take notes…" He trailed off, then there was a peel of laughter in the background. He called to the others, sounding only distractedly amused, "Okay, the replacing the gun with a banana was funny, like, five months ago! Who the hell has my real gun?"

There was more laughter, then a few explosions, and then the laughter continued.

"Anyways, like I said, thanks for all your help- I mean, er- theoretical speculation."

"It was no problem, I assure you," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "And do be careful, if you would permit me to say it."

"Uh… sure. I, uh, gotta go-" the voice said, extremely distracted as there was a defined roar in the background, and the line went dead.

Dumbledore's lips tilted wryly as he pressed the 'end' button. He automatically felt worry churning in his stomach at the thought of such violence and danger, but he also got the inexplicable feeling that those young adults would be fine. Maybe it was just Joden's humor in the face of it all, but it was still oddly comforting.

"That was strange," Harry commented after a few moments of silence. Joden had been speaking loudly in order to be heard over the constant thrumming of explosions, so, needless to say, Harry had overheard the entire conversation. "Who was that?"

"Apparently, that was Joden," said Dumbledore with a teasing twinkle in his eyes. Harry just gave him a deadpan look. Dumbledore smiled. "He is, I believe, a friend from Chris' weekend excursions."

Harry blinked, obviously having come to the same conclusion on his own. "Hm," was all he said.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were sitting around Harry's bed playing Exploding Snap that evening when Ron suddenly blurted,

"Ginny, would you stop looking at Chris! You have a boyfriend, and- trust me- you don't want _him_!" he jabbed a thumb at Chris' bed, where the teen was still unconscious.

Ginny threw her brother a withering glare. "I wasn't looking at him like that, _Ronald_. I just couldn't help but notice how different he looks in light colors." She flicked her long hair behind her shoulders as she finished, as if to brush it off. Harry could vividly recall Ginny and Ron's last conversation about her love interests; it was a scene he wished he'd never witnessed at all, and he had hoped it would never be brought up again.

He did, however, know what she meant by her glances. Madam Pomfrey had swished her wand and instantly replaced Chris' dark clothes and trench coat with the standard hospital pajamas, which were white with thin light blue stripes. The difference was astounding. He actually looked kind of a little bit almost- _normal_.

Apparently, Ginny thought differently. "Looks a bit like an angel, doesn't he?" she commented offhandedly as she took her turn. "With the white hair and nice necklace and all. Not nearly as threatening."

While Hermione nodded in agreement, Ron demanded, "He's threatened you?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "No, Ronald. He's never even spoken to me. Now, stop being a prat and take your turn."

Ron scowled and grumbled, but Hermione suddenly gasped, and everything stopped.

"I think he's waking!"

Sure enough, Chris' eyelids were fluttering and his face scrunched up slightly, as if uncomfortable. Harry, fearing that Chris might be going into a nightmare, called,

"Chris, wake up! …Chris!"

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

_--"Oh, wake up, Chris!" Wyatt snarled as he rose from his seat on the council table. "It's all about __**power**__, I've told you. Just get those stupid little notions of good and evil out of your head and look at what's best for __**everyone**__."_

"_And what's that, Wyatt?" Chris whispered, gazing hard at his brother, his emotions inconceivable behind the mask of gleaming nothingness. "What's best for everyone? Death? I admit, it solves all the problems encountered during life."_

"_United rule, Christopher, is best for everyone. Regulate the interactions between witches, humans, and demons so the fighting stops. Don't you just want all the fighting to stop?" His voice suddenly broke, and he looked straight back into Chris' eyes, earnest, pleading even. "I can't keep letting so many witches die fighting the immortal, the inevitable. __**I just want it to stop**__, Chris. This has to be the way." Wyatt paused. "Why do you always do this to yourself?" He sighed as he directed his fourteen year old brother to his own room. "You've got to stop this stupidity eventually, you realize."_

_Chris shook his head numbly, his eyelids drooping and his limbs heavier than lead. Everything was spinning, rocking, waving. He felt like he was going to vomit if he couldn't get steady soon. He heard Wyatt say something else, but he was so high, by the time Wyatt got to the end of the sentence, Chris had already forgotten the beginning, and while he tried to remember that, he ended up forgetting what he was trying to remember. He was so going to puke…_

"_Just tell me __**why**__, for Christ's sake," Wyatt begged as he lowered Chris onto the bed, a little more roughly than necessary. "You're just going to be hung over and no good to anyone for any thing in the morning, and you know it! How is this worth it? Are you having __**fun**__, now?"_

_Chris couldn't exactly identify where he was, but it was soft, and something warm was laying partially over him. He pulled the covers closer and mumbled softly, haltingly, "…Just wanted… to forget…."_

"_Forget __**what**__?"_

"…_I don't… don't… remember…."_

-- _Chris felt the brick wall scrape even more skin from his cheek as the gym coach held his arms behind his back even tighter. _

"_So what are you going to do, kid?" the coach growled, close enough to Chris' ear to be frightening. "If you even __**think**__ of telling anyone, or if I hear a little birdie whispering in ears, you know what I can do? I've got the whole football team under my thumb. All I gotta do is let slip some comment about, gee, I dunno, _gay porn _in your book bag, and you know what? They'll make the rest of your high school career a living Hell, kid. _That's _what I can do."_

"_-Wyatt--" Chris tried to say, in spite of his face being pressed flat into the wall._

"_Yeah, Wyatt will make sure they don't do it in front of him, I'll give you that," the coach conceded, but he still sounded arrogantly in control. He slammed Chris' body into the wall yet again before he continued. "But what will you tell him when he wants to know the truth? Huh, kid? Doesn't it all amount to the same? Now, _listen to me_…" _

_-- Wyatt spun around in the school's hallway as he felt something being placed into the back pocket of his pants, where he kept his wallet. Chris was behind him and held up a dollar bill, proof of his bounty. He explained it by the monotonous words, "Vending machine."_

_Wyatt blinked, then slapped himself on the forehead. "Shoot, I forgot! I'm so sorry! Listen, we'll go by Pizza Hut or something, but I've got to go to practice first, after school. That okay?" He waited for Chris' response with sincerely worried eyes. _

_Chris nodded mutely, but took the dollar to the snack machine, anyway. After school was still a long time to wait when he hadn't eaten in almost a week._

_-- "No, Chris, don't go," the words were sobbed, thick yet broken with grief. "Don't go, you can't go. Please, you can't leave me, too. Chris… please, come on, Chris. Wake up…"_

_Blond hair obscured Chris' already darkening vision as the person pulled his body from the blood soaked floor, clinging onto him tightly and yelling at someone, anyone, to call an ambulance, because he can't heal self-inflicted wounds. He couldn't heal his brother. "Please, wake up, Chris," Wyatt sobbed again and again and again. "Please, wake up… wake up… You c-can't do this… _Wake up_…"_

"Chris, wake up! …Chris!"

His eyes snapped open.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris' eyes shot open at the exact same moment that Madam Pomfrey came rushing into the room. Once she saw Chris awake, she headed directly towards him.

Chris fell straight through the bed in his groggy alarm. They all stared at him. He, in turn, stared up at one of the bed's bars that was going through his forehead and squinted in bleary confusion. He rolled out from under the bed.

"What the hell was that?" Ginny voiced in surprise.

"Intangibility," Harry informed her once it became apparent that Chris was not getting up or answering her any time soon. "Are you alright, Chris?"

Chris only blinked.

"Mr. Halliwell?" queried Madam Pomfrey, eyebrows drawing together in her scrutiny.

Still nothing. Harry felt his heart speed up slightly. What was wrong? Had something happened to Chris while he was outside of his own mind? Had he somehow been unable to come back? Or worse- what if he had been permanently damaged by the fight?

There was a resounding crack, and Harry suddenly found himself staring at the back of a very familiar house elf.

"Dobby has the God's Elixir of Life that Just Chris enjoys, sir," the house elf addressed the unresponsive Halliwell solemnly, holding out a large thermos of steaming hot coffee. It was so strong, Harry could smell it from his bed.

The effect was instantaneous.

Chris bolted up and took the drink faster than any of them could even register him getting off the floor. After a huge gulp, Chris put the mug down and, Harry didn't know if it was the scalding hot liquid burning his throat or absolute joy, his eyes glittered with tears.

"Dobby, I love you, little man!"

Dobby's huge, bulbous eyes filled with tears, which immediately began to leak out. "Dobby has much love for Just Chris, too, sir!" the small house elf wailed, and Harry imagined the two would have been bawling on each other's shoulders in seconds if he didn't act fast.

"Chris! You've been asleep for a week- _Voldemort is in the castle, Chris_!"

That effect was fast, but it still didn't match the unadulterated speed the concept of coffee gave him.

"_What_?" all voices yelped, save Chris, who merely sounded confused.

Harry shifted under everyone's intense gazes. "Um… just kidding." He wriggled uncomfortably as everyone continued to stare at him. "Except for the part about… um… you being asleep for a week, that is. Because…. you were."

Harry shifted awkwardly, now. Chris sipped his coffee mutely.

There was complete silence.

Finally, it was broken by an unexpected query, which went something like, "…Why do I suddenly feel almost normal, slightly angelic, and a lot less threatening? …_OH, GOD_!"

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Dumbledore had to be called to settle a dispute between Chris and the nurse about how thoroughly she could examine him. Apparently, she wanted to get closer than arm's length away, but Chris' opinion differed. Another issue was how long Chris was _willing_ to stay in the hospital wing- which wasn't very long.

"I haven't been to the -you know- in almost _three weeks_," Chris snapped, unable to say the Resistance in front of Harry. He, Madam Pomfrey, and Dumbledore had been arguing for quite a while, now. "Do you have _any_ idea how much can change in three weeks? I've got to go!"

"Albus, for the last time, you cannot let this boy out of my sight until I've completed a thorough examination!" Madam Pomfrey boomed, swelling with annoyance as her gaze remained largely on Chris. "He has been unconscious for over a week; there's no telling what has happened to his nutrition, physical strength, or mental stability! After a stunt like that, with Mr. Potter, there is no telling what may be wrong with him! I must be allowed to examine him!"

When Chris opened his mouth to argue yet another point, Dumbledore held up his hand for silence, and, surprisingly, Chris shut his mouth.

"Chris, for your information, Joden called while you were unconscious, and I spoke to him for a little while." Dumbledore once again held up his hand when Chris looked surprised and a little offended. "I realize I shouldn't have touched your belongings, but I was able to offer a bit of assistance with their Cyclopes-Chupacabra problem, so I will not ask you to forgive me."

Chris' jaw almost dropped. "They _told_ you what was happening? I mean, it's not a top priority secret, what we do, or anything- that's ridiculous, the idiots!"

"No, he offered me a _theoretical_ situation, which I discussed _possible_ solutions to. He was quite ardent about the word theoretical, I assure you." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

Chris stared for just a moment, then could only find strength to rolled his eyes. "That sounds like them, alright," he mumbled. "How long ago was this?"

"Just this morning."

Chris sighed as he considered it. "Fine, I'll call him back and see how everything went, then we'll talk about it again. But I'm not staying in here any longer."

"Yes, young man, you are," snapped the nurse, looking like any examination she gave him now was not going to be gentle.

Dumbledore sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose as the two began a "no, I'm not" and "yes, you are" argument. Beside him, he heard Harry sigh, as well. Honestly, he thought it was about time Harry was allowed to leave. The boy had been there for a week of observation; Dumbledore was sure that was enough.

"Silence, please," he requested quietly, and the two paused abruptly in their debate. He continued before they could think to start it again. "Chris, I will ask you to submit to a short examination, and then you will be able to go where ever you please if the results are to my satisfaction. That means," he pushed ahead as Chris made to object, "you can leave the campus for up to two days, even though it is still during the school week. And Poppy, if you could please keep it as quick and painless as possible? Thank you."

Neither was happy with this compromise, but Dumbledore's unyielding gaze kept them from debating for another half hour over it.

Reluctantly, Chris sat down at the foot of his bed and stared dejectedly at the floor. The nurse instantly seized this opportunity and made with the waving of her wand.

"Still tired?" Dumbledore surmised.

Chris nodded fractionally, not looking at him. "I hate sleeping…"

"Well, you must have needed it, or you would have been able to awaken," the headmaster replied calmly, searching Chris' suddenly very closed expression. "Nightmares, still?"

"Not until the end," said Chris, quiet, his eyes flicking up to Pomfrey's wand as it came unnecessarily close to his face.

Dumbledore inclined his head thoughtfully.

A few more minutes passed as the nurse waved and jabbed her wand, taking notes on a clipboard and occasionally clucking her tongue infuriatingly at the results only she could see.

Finally, it was over.

"Professor Dumbledore, could I speak to you in private?" Madam Pomfrey _requested_.

"_No_," Chris said before Dumbledore even open his mouth. "It's _me_ you're talking about."

Dumbledore actually chuckled. "_My_, you are belligerent tonight, Chris."

Chris didn't even look mildly offended. "Duh. I'm in a bad mood. I don't exactly like _wasting time_." He motioned pointedly at the nurse, who glared in return.

Dumbledore, still just chuckling, followed Pomfrey into her office.

Chris blew out his breath and fell back into his bed, where his hair scattered into his face. He blinked, then tried to blow it out of his face. It only fell back into his eyes. Harry laughed from the bed next to his. Chris sighed.

"So, are you okay?" Chris asked without much feeling.

"Yeah. I've just been sitting doing nothing for about a week. You?" Chris noted that Harry seemed to be in an unnaturally good mood.

Chris deflated. "Peachy. Just peachy." Then he sat up again, more energetic as a thought struck him. "So, you kicked Voldemort out of your head. How does it feel to finally kick his ass in a square battle? Great, isn't it?"

Harry grinned. "It is pretty relieving to know I can do it."

Chris gave him a teasing look. "Oh, come on. You know it was _awesome_."

Harry laughed. "Alright, yes. _It was pretty awesome_," he imitated Chris' accent with a grin.

Chris laughed. "You're making improvement- and not just with your American accents. We've got to go gloat at Snape before anyone else does…. You know Dumbledore's going to remind him of this."

"Yeah, if he hasn't already. I just wish I could have seen Snape's expression when he first heard about it."

"Priceless," Chris agreed.

The two spent a few more minutes talking about it before the headmaster and nurse came back into the room, both their faces uncharacteristically grim. Chris' shoulders sagged. This didn't bode well for his possible escape.

"Chris, we need to talk," Dumbledore spoke quietly. "Harry, could you please excuse us? You are free to leave, but return immediately if your thought process or mentality shows signs of unprecedented change. Thank you."

Chris and Harry shared a brief, puzzled look before Harry rose, grabbed his belongings, and exited.

Chris turned his attention back to the adults, guarded. "Well?"

"Chris, is there anything you might wish to tell us about your past health? Anything we might need to know in case of emergency?" Dumbledore asked calmly, softly. The way he asked, Chris knew he already had answers in mind. What had the examination shown?

However, with the memories of his dreams still fresh in his mind, Chris did not feel up to any sort of heart-to-heart about his childhood. He just wanted to leave, get away for a little while. So, he answered bluntly, "Nothing that can be unexpected for a Halliwell. Is that all?"

Dumbledore smiled wryly, but the twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles was dull. "If that is all you're comfortable with, it is," he replied kindly. "Have a safe trip, and tell the team I said hello."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Slowly, the world rotated through November. Chris returned to the Resistance each weekend to save the world and play pranks with his team of misfits- Joden the Muggle, Andrea the witch, and Duncan the vampire. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had come to yet another silent understanding with their new Gryffindor. Since he had directly saved Harry twice in only two months, they slowly began to ease off on their relentless investigating and give him the amount of space he so obviously needed. And the world kept on spinning.

Dumbledore and Chris continued to have almost nightly chat and card games, but even Dumbledore seemed to begin bending to Chris' need of _some_ mystery. Their talks were almost all inconsequential.

The James, Lily, and Sirius watched from the sidelines, knowing that, as the month passed without any excitement, something big had to be looming just beyond the horizon.

**

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A/N: THANK YOU EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED!! I was so happy when I updated and, like, an hour later my email was full of magnificent reviews! Awesome! Y'all rock! **

PS, Please, for the love of God, wish me luck on Saturday. I'm taking the SAT with only a year and a half of high school under my belt, and I'm so nervous. 


	22. Of the Right Choice

**General Warning for swearing in this chapter. A few F words and G-d.**

**General Disclaimer applies.**

**Thank you, all my readers and reviewers! You guys are so freakin' awesome. I want to say that I love all you guys that have been with me since Fishy Chrissy and still read and review- you put the laughter in my slaughter. : ) And all my new readers and reviewers- thanks for speaking up! I value your opinions and ideas, too. Fresh insights are so exciting. **

**Some quick shout outs: Stoneage Woman, my brilliant beta; Charmedgrl4ever; History Buff 1990; Embry; Wiccanforever; RuByMoOn17; peppymint; Whiteninjetti; forestwife; and so many others (but haven't reviewed recently, so I can't be sure)! Y'all have been with me forever and I love you!**

**Chapter 21 reviewers:**

**HalfBloodPrincess221**: Wow, thanks. I really do try to keep the characters as realistic as I can. Enjoy the chapter.  
**Xcharmedgirl4evax**: Thanks! I hope you like this chapter.  
**charmed l0ver**: Thanks for all your reviews. They're pretty awesome. Hope you like the chapter!  
**Yaoifanboy**: Thank you!  
**Kelly**: Well, here it is. Have fun reading!  
**Charmedgrl4ever**: Have I ever told you how much I love your reviews? Lol. Yeah, I've been sick for about two weeks straight, now. Sucks. And I've got another Ginny-Chris scene planned, so that wasn't their big meeting. Chris' "past health" will be brought up quite soon… winkwink. Thanks for the review- loved it! Hope you like this chapter. : )  
**History Buff 1990**: Thanks again. Loved the "-Like a heroin addict needs a new hit!" Awesome.  
**NaruXHinata-Rules:** He really has had a crappy life. Isn't it fun? Lol. And I loved the word "tragic" in your review. So accurate. : ) Have fun reading.  
**Dreamgirl93**: Thanks! Joden is probably my favorite on the team, too.  
**I look harmless but just wait**: I love all your reviews. : ) Thanks!  
**SeeNoEvilHearNoEvilSpeakNoEvil:**Thanks, and I think this chapter is shorter… sorry. The next one will be longer, I promise. Hope you like this chapter.  
**d: **I'm glad you found the humor. I was afraid it would be too dark. Thanks!  
**Maiqu:** Thanks again: )  
**Embry:** Lol. I still look forward to all your reviews- awesomeness. Thanks, and I think I did okay on the SAT. I actually fell asleep during the essay, though… I didn't get to finish it… Whoops. That's what I get for being an anti-morning person.  
**Potterwing**: Thanks. I thought they needed a break, too. Enjoy the chapter!  
**Kittycow2004**: That's pretty cool. And yeah, the test was SO incredibly boring. I hope you did well!!  
**Whiteninjetti: **Thanks, and I hope you like this chapter!**  
Pinkphoenix1985**: Thanks!!!  
**Artsfan**: Thank you! Enjoy the chapter. : )  
**Forestwife**: Lol. I still loves all your reviews- thanks!!  
**luv me xoxo GossipGal**: Wow. Thanks for reviewing all the chapters; very fun reading them all. I hope you like the chapter: )

**

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Chapter 22:**** Of the "Right" Choice**

Snow was swirling against the icy windows once more; Christmas was approaching fast. Hagrid had already delivered the twelve Christmas trees for the Great Hall; garlands of holly and tinsel had been twisted around the banisters of the stairs; everlasting candles glowed from inside the helmets of suits of armor and great bunches of mistletoe had been hung at intervals along the corridors. Large groups of girls tended to converge underneath the mistletoe bunches every time Harry went past, which caused blockages in the corridors; fortunately, however, Harry's frequent night-time wanderings had given him an unusually good knowledge of the castle's secret passageways, so that he was able, without too much difficulty, to navigate mistletoe-free routes between classes.

Ron, who might once have found the necessity of the detours a cause for jealousy rather than hilarity, simply roared with laughter about it all. Although Harry much preferred this new laughing, joking Ron to the moody, aggressive model he had been enduring for the past few weeks, the improved Ron came at a heavy price. Firstly, Harry had to put up with the frequent presence of Lavender Brown, who seemed to regard any moment that she was not kissing Ron a moment wasted; and secondly, Harry found himself once more the best friend of two people who seemed unlikely to ever speak to each other again.

"When did this happen, again?" Chris asked blankly after returning from another weekend off to find Ron and Lavender joined at the… well, pretty much every possible place.

"After the Quidditch match," Harry returned dully, sinking lower in his arm chair as Hermione entered through the portrait hole only to spot the couple immediately. Without so much as a glance at Harry and Chris, she stalked up to the girl's dormitories. Harry closed his eyes wearily. "It's been this bad once before, but that was just a miracle when they starting speaking to each other, again, in the first place. I don't know whether or not they're going to get over it, this time…"

Chris just blinked, looking slightly bemused. "Hmph."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"He doesn't love her, you know," Chris told Hermione as they sat together in the library working on homework. Neither looked up from their assignments as they spoke.

"So that makes it okay, does it?" asked Hermione stiffly, dotting an 'i' with unnecessary sharpness so that she punched a hole through the paper. She continued writing furiously.

"That means it will only last until he runs out of oxygen," Chris returned nonchalantly, writing his paper without emotion.

Now, Hermione glanced up at him, querying.

"I mean, he can't have _that_ much stored up in his ass."

Hermione chuckled absently as she turned back to her paper, and Harry appeared suddenly beside them. He flung his book bag down with a superfluous amount of exasperation.

"They were drooling over each other so much, I was afraid when I was leaving that I would slip in it," he said by way of explanation as he pulled out his Potions book. "Oh, and Chris, Slughorn wanted me to tell you that you're not getting out of his Christmas party. He's determined to have us both, this time."

Chris rolled his eyes. He had, of course, been invited into the professor's little Slug Club his first week of school, but he had skillfully evaded every get-together so far.

He snorted. "Yeah, right. Unless that 'party' has a full bar and live music, there's no way."

Harry rolled his eyes and commented, "You know, I think you've used every possible excuse. I mean, even I was surprised he bought, 'I've got to go home Tuesday; a demon ate my dog!'" While Chris chuckled at the memory, Harry remarked exasperatedly, "You don't even _have_ a dog, Chris. _Seriously_." He shook his head.

"Hey, you don't know that," Chris returned, feigning offense.

"Well, do you?"

"…No."

Harry leisurely leaned his chair back on two legs. "'S what I thought."

Chris absentmindedly pushed out one of the chair legs, and Harry went toppling over. There was a loud exclamation of '_Ow!'_ "Don't try and think if it hurts, Harry."

Hermione giggled and continued writing her essay.

"I'm glad someone found that funny," Harry grumbled good-naturedly as he got back to his feet and glared at Chris, who pulled an entirely innocent face- which fooled no one.

"So, what are you doing for Christmas?" Harry continued conversationally, retaking his seat.

"Leaving."

"Ah. Any particular destination?"

"None that you need know of."

Harry grinned. "…That's what I thought."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris did, in fact, manage to get out of the Christmas party, but Harry had a strong feeling it wasn't in a way he would have wanted.

They were actually on their way to Slughorn's class, the day before the party, when Chris' cell phone rang. The American frowned and answered it as he, Harry, and Hermione continued walking.

"Yeah, Andrea, what's up?"

There was silence as Chris listened. Then, Chris stopped walking.

"What?" the question was flat, blank, causing Harry to also stop and turn to look. Chris' expression had completely vanished from his face, leaving his features utterly desolate of human emotion. His stormy green eyes had darkened, like the shadow of a slammed door blocking the light behind. The eyes turned downward in contemplation. "Yeah, I'm still here. No, I'm okay. Look, I'll… I'll be there soon…" There was another break of silence as he listened, then he replied. "Yeah. Yes, thanks for… yeah. Bye."

Slowly, he closed the phone and returned it to a pocket in his jacket. Without a word of explanation, he turned and walked back the way they had come.

"Chris?" Hermione called, she and Harry sharing a look of bewilderment. They followed after him, jogging to catch up.

"Tell Slughorn I can't make the party; I'm leaving for break early." His voice was flat, distant. It sent an inexplicable chill down Harry's spine, which he knew Hermione mirrored as her cinnamon eyes sought his.

"Chris, what--?"

"Later, Harry." Chris walked straight through the wall to their left, effectively cutting them off from following.

Harry and Hermione froze in the hallway, then slowly turned to face each other. Neither knew what to say.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

While Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Lavender were eating supper that evening, Harry and Ginny preparing to leave for the party, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat behind them. Ron and Lavender instantly stopped playing footsie under the table to sit up and listen.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. and Miss Weasley, the Headmaster would like a word with you in his office," she said abruptly; then her professionally thinned lips twitched slightly. "And I might advise you to put on helmets before you get struck in the crossfire up there."

Without another word, she continued on her way to the staff table.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny shared baffled looks. Ginny just shrugged and led the way up.

"It's open," Dumbledore's voice called cheerfully upon Harry's tentative knock. Still slightly cautious, Harry eased the door open and peeked in before clearing the way for Ron and Ginny.

Inside, the air was thick with suppressed hostility, and the source wasn't hard to find. Chris sat in the chair directly across from the headmaster, and though his expression was still missing from his face, he seemed to be emanating anger in rolling waves of heat. He was looking pointedly out the frosted window.

"Please, have a seat," Dumbledore requested pleasantly when they hovered awkwardly in the doorway, all wondering what the two had been arguing about this time. They followed the instructions silently, Harry ending up with the seat closest to Chris. Fawkes flew from Chris' shoulder to Harry's knee in a quiet flutter of feathers. "Chris and I were just discussing possible alternative arrangements for the holidays, weren't we _Mr. Halliwell_?"

At this, Chris' gaze shot back to Dumbledore, and Harry was almost surprised Dumbledore didn't receive it like a bullet wound to the face.

"I swear, old man, I am _trying_ to stop myself, but if you keep this up you will only live long enough to regret it," he hissed with such ice in his voice, it could have put the freezing weather outside to shame. Needless to say, Harry, Ron, and Ginny jumped slightly in alarm.

Dumbledore sighed and decided to address Harry, Ron, and Ginny only. "Circumstances have arisen that will make Harry's stay at the Burrow quite impractical, unless other… _precautions_ were made. Indeed, it would be incredibly dangerous for you to leave the school grounds at all without… precautions."

Harry blinked, still utterly bewildered. "Sir?"

"I think it would be wise to move your arrangements to your new estate, where you will have Order members in and out, therein keeping an eye on things," Dumbledore clarified gently, then turned the kind gaze to the Weasleys. "I have already spoken to Molly and she insisted it would be no trouble to move there for a few weeks. I think she much appreciated the idea of more space for all the holiday visitors, actually."

"Um, sir, I still don't fully understand…" Harry managed to speak slowly, feeling as though the floor had been ripped out from under his feet. He hadn't been to Grimmauld Place since Sirius… oh, God. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and asked, "What happened? What do you mean 'precautions'?"

Dumbledore smiled slightly, an understanding in his eyes that made Harry feel strangely less like the world had missed a few spins. "Lord Voldemort has recently become more daring in his plans. We believe it is not long until he makes a direct attempt to somehow take or otherwise harm you," Dumbledore explained calmly. "And I understand your desire not to be coddled, so I am willing, even against my better judgment, to let you leave the grounds for the entirety of the student holidays. But not without just precautions."

"Such as…?"

Dumbledore smiled, but it had a hint of wistfulness. "For one, my mind would be much more at ease if you and Chris were to stay close. I believe you do tend to keep each other out of the unnecessary danger."

"You mean _he_ keeps _me_ out of unnecessary danger," Harry corrected bluntly, not falling for the vice versa at all. He couldn't stop Chris from doing anything he wanted to if he tried. "And I take it Chris is against this 'precaution'?" He glanced at the other teen questioningly.

Chris, feeling the question directed at him, turned around, his expression now closed rather than blank. He turned to face Harry directly and put his elbows on his knees as he answered earnestly, "Harry, _any_ other day, I probably wouldn't care- but not _now_- not for two weeks. I really _cannot_ do it."

Harry blinked. He could see it even behind those padlocked doors in Chris' eyes that something was very wrong; something was eating him alive on the inside. "Okay," he agreed with a nod, not wanting to do anything that would- hurt?- Chris. Would he _actually_ be _hurt_? "If you can't, then okay." He returned his gaze to Dumbledore. "Is there any other way?"

And now Dumbledore's smile was tinted with sadness. "There are more protective wards we could use, but they would severely constrict possible activities, such as leaving the house. Arthur would not be unable to go to work every day, or he couldn't stay at Grimmauld Place with his family if he did. There would be other such-"

"Professor, my dad needs his job!" Ron blurted, looking stunned. "He couldn't just take two weeks off!"

Dumbledore's smile saddened even more. "I am afraid we have no idea what Lord Voldemort may be planning. Anything less than these sorts of wards wouldn't be enough. I am quite certain that Harry will be in danger as soon as he steps foot outside the grounds. I am not willing to risk it."

"So you're saying," Harry cut in, feeling a heavy, cold stone settling in his stomach, "that I have to stay at Hogwarts, or Ron's dad loses his job? Is there nothing else?"

"Or you somehow convince Chris to go with you," the statement wasn't hopeful. No one missed the downright filthy look Chris shot the headmaster.

"You think we're that safe together?" Harry implied dubiously.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled and glanced at Chris, who was looking pointedly out the window again. "Yes, quite the… dynamic duo."

The aforementioned window shattered with the resounding crack of a gunshot. Everyone, save Chris, jumped slightly.

"One more comment like that and your face will be next," Chris snapped bitterly, throwing yet another icy look at Dumbledore. "That was low."

At this, Dumbledore inclined his head. "Excuse me, Chris. I admit, I was only trying to give you something to compare… and maybe something to understand my point of view."

Chris' glare darkened even more. "I understand perfectly fine. That doesn't automatically mean I _care_." When Dumbledore made as though to reply, Chris shook his head and cut across, "Look, isn't Ron's mother a witch? I know for a fact that mother-witches are badass in duels. They'll be fine with her. You won't have to bother with so many damn wards."

Before Ron or Ginny could even _begin_ to assess that statement, Dumbledore responded quietly, "Just because they are mothers and witches, and even _badass,_ doesn't mean they'll always win, Chris. It doesn't mean they can't still die. You know that."

Before Harry realized what had happened, Dumbledore's desk was lying among shattered trinkets on the opposite side of the room, flipped and broken, and Chris and Dumbledore were on their feet.

"_What do you want from me_?" Chris demanded, his voice suddenly sounding close to breaking. Emotions like Harry had never before seen were fighting each other for dominance in his eyes, and that fight itself seemed to be torturing him. He threw out his hands emphatically and Harry felt his chair shudder. "What do you want- _God dammit, Dumbledore_! _Why_? Why, _why_- are you doing this? I just- I don't- I can't-" He threw out his hands again and several loose unidentifiable objects were thrown in opposite directions. "-_understand_; why are you messing with my _head_? Why can't you just leave me _alone_?"

"Christopher, I'm not trying-"

"_Yes, you are_! _Dynamic duo_, a fucking knife in my chest- _they can still die, you know that_- you might as well rip my heart out with your own fucking hands while you're at it! _Why_? Don't you think I have enough to deal with without-"

"Listen to me, Chris. It's not about-"

"NO! I don't have time, _damn it_!" Chris yelled, but his voice broke and he stopped, blinking furiously. Harry glimpsed an unusual glittering in his eyes. After a second, he finished in a strangled whisper, "I _told_ you, and you _agreed_. _How_ can you take it back, now?"

Dumbledore watched him for a moment, and Chris remained watching him with bloodshot, unseeing eyes, waiting for an answer.

"I know, and I am very sorry, Chris," Dumbledore began quietly, looking directly at Chris as he spoke. "It's not fair to you, I know, but in the long run, it matters more and you realize it. I know what that conflict feels like, Chris, I do, but you've got to make the right choice. You just have to."

"You're not talking about Harry's vacation anymore, are you?" Chris asked numbly. He hadn't taken his eyes off Dumbledore.

Dumbledore smiled serenely. "No, I think not."

Tiredly, Chris rubbed his eyes and glanced back out the broken window. "How about a compromise?" he proposed quietly before glancing back at them all. They all sat up straighter, listening. "Harry, you can go to the Order's headquarters, but without those insanely restrictive wards, but if you need me at all, call my name and I'll hear you, where ever I am, and I'll come." He glanced back at Dumbledore. "Is that good enough for you?"

"You know that's not what it's about, Chris," Dumbledore smiled wryly. "Why are you so insistent? What aren't you telling me?"

"Unless you're willing to spell out whatever it _is_ about to me, I really don't give a damn," Chris returned bluntly, blatantly ignoring the questions. He appeared incredibly tired, now.

"Christopher…"

Chris sighed almost inaudibly and held the side of his face in a hand. "The doctors gave him less than a month to live," he conceded wearily, quietly. "He was the one that took me in after my parents died and no one else wanted anything to do with me. He was _always_ there for me. I'm not abandoning him, now. Not when he needs me."

The silence was following this seemingly indecipherable statement was deafening. At length, all Dumbledore said was, "I see."

Chris gave a soft laugh. "You do, do you?"

Dumbledore's twinkle was weak. "I had not realized. Of course your compromise is acceptable. But-" here he looked at Harry sharply, "-only if you agree to call Chris the moment you sense anything amiss. Is that clear?"

"Of- Of course," Harry stammered, still lost in the previous conversation, but ready to agree to anything. "Professor…"

"You may return, now, Chris. Thank you," Dumbledore added with emphasis.

Chris didn't say a word as he flamed out of the office.

"Professor, what on earth were you talking about?" Harry demanded weakly, looking at the spot Chris had vanished and wondering how he had forgotten Chris could do that.

Now, Dumbledore sighed heavily and laced his fingers together on his desk. After a moment, he squared the three a Look and spoke softly. "Chris' grandfather is very sick. He was recently hospitalized and diagnosed with cancer. It was, apparently, already much too late."

The temperature of the room plummeted, along with Harry's stomach. "But, professor… Can't magic do anything? I mean, St. Mungo's has that ward…"

"Magic can only stall death, Harry," Ron, surprisingly, answered, his voice also soft. "It can't cure terminal illnesses. One of my uncles died of cancer just a few years ago…"

Harry felt his heart clench.

Silence.

"What else were you talking about?" Harry asked after several moments of silence. "-When he said you weren't talking about me, anymore?"

At this, the sad smile returned. "I think you've noticed how… _distracted_ he's been lately?" At Harry and Ron's nods, he finished with the same wry smile, "I believe he is struggling not to return to Lord Wyatt, again."

"WHAT?"

"Professor Dumbledore, he would _never_-" Harry began vehemently, but Dumbledore held up his hand for silence. Harry cut off abruptly.

"I know, Harry. I want to believe the same thing, but I don't think we can ever fully understand what he's going through- what's he's already _been_ through. The only way I could think to help him at this point was _this_."

"Was what?"

Dumbledore smiled and motioned kindly to Ron and Ginny. "The plan was to give him time with the Weasleys, to see that there is still good on this side, still left to fight for. I think it would help him more than even he could realize."

The three students blinked in surprise. After a moment, Harry responded blankly, "You know, Professor, I think Chris was right."

"Oh?"

"You are being quite manipulative at the moment, sir. Is Voldemort even really going to have a try at me over the break?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "I prefer to think of it as solving two problems with one solution, my boy, because Voldemort _is_ becoming much more active than we had expected."

Harry just shook his head and sighed. "No offense, sir, but I don't think this is going to end well."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Staying at Grimmauld Place without Sirius was just as gloomy as it sounded. Ms. Weasley had obviously done more cleaning after their last stay, and it was indeed brighter than ever. The merry Christmas decorations, however, only covered up the depressed darkness looming in the background. Harry felt it all the same. There were rooms in the house such as Buckbeak's and the family tree room that he had yet to step foot in, and it had been four days since their arrival. He knew it wasn't healthy that he was so obviously avoiding emotional confrontations, but he figured he was facing enough demons just being back in the house- his house- _Sirius_' house. It was enough without going into Sirius' personal room.

So that was the atmosphere Ms. Weasley found Harry, Ron, Ginny, Fred, and George in when she found them playing Exploding Snap in the dining room.

"I've arranged to make a quick run to the market for some cooking ingredients, boys- Ginny," she said hastily as she grabbed her cloak and checked her watch. "The barriers are going down in thirty seconds, so will you need anything while I'm out?"

"Nope," the monotone chorus came. Mr. Weasley asked the same thing everyday before he went to work.

"Well, alright, then. I should be back in twenty minutes with Bill and Fleur. Goodbye!" She added quickly as the swooshing sensation of magic filled the room, indicating the lowering of the barriers. She Disapparated.

The youths returned to their game. It wasn't a full second later, however, when a very familiar voice commanded liltingly, _"Expelliarmus!"_

Harry and the Weasleys shot to their feet, but not fast enough to keep a grip on their wands, which went soaring into the awaiting hand of one Lucius Malfoy.

Instinctually, the Gryffindors had formed a side to side circle, facing their opponents. Ten Death Eaters were surrounding them, all cloaked and hooded so that their faces were hidden in shadow, save Lucius, who let his face show with pride.

"Malfoy," Harry snarled, not letting his sudden cold dread show. How had Malfoy escaped Azkaban? There was a brief pause as his mind reminded him of the dementors being on Voldemort's side. _Duh_. The humor, however, vanished as soon as it had come. The Death Eaters had raised their wands, and soon, ten wands were aimed directly at their hearts. George stiffened next to Harry, and Malfoy laughed softly.

"No Apparating here, Weasley. …Now, Potter," he turned his cold, steel gray eyes back to Harry and continued quietly, "the deal is simple. You come with us, we don't kill you and the little vermin around you- for now, anyway. You put up another fight, you all die here. It's really _very_ simple."

The room was filled with only the sounds of heavy breathing, especially from the youths. Harry cast about himself desperately for a way- _any_ way- out of this. But it really was quite simple. He had no wand, there was no one else around, and they couldn't leave. Death Eaters blocked the only two doors, and they all had the advantage of wands. There was no way out.

His mind raced. He would have to go with Malfoy to save everyone else's lives; that was their only chance. It would at least give the Weasleys a chance to fight- or escape, even if he was taken to Voldemort to die, himself. At least they would have a chance. Or was Malfoy lying? Would they be killed as soon as Harry made his decision, regardless?

"Your choice, Potter?" whispered Malfoy, watching the teenager carefully.

Only one word came to mind when Harry opened his mouth.

"_Chris_."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris looked up from his book to let his eyes rest on his grandfather, as he had found himself doing every other minute. He doubted, in a part of his mind that no longer mattered, that he had even read a page in the past half hour. Victor looked so different. So terribly different…. The cancer had taken over his body with alarming speed, seeming to take away everything the old man had- his weight, his strength… even his consciousness.

The independent, motivated man Chris had always idolized in his childhood had been reduced to bones swathed in hospital rags, laying in a coma in a hospital room for the terminally ill. It was enough to drive everything else into an unimportant recess of Chris' mind. All he could think about was how much he wanted his grandpa to open his eyes… just once…. He had to see him just once more…. He just couldn't leave, yet….

Sighing, Chris wiped his tired, drooping eyelids and marked his page. He leaned back in the visitor's chair and let his muscles relax. He automatically tensed every time he looked at his grandfather, now, so he was surprised he could still move at all for stiffness.

He hadn't been back to the Resistance since he had come back over a week ago. He had only left his side to go to Victor's apartment for a shower and a new book. He just couldn't do anything else. He couldn't handle anything else. Not until he spoke to his grandpa…. Every thought in his mind ended with, …_just once more_…. _Just one last time_….

A muffled groan caused Chris' eyes to snap open. Victor's eyelids fluttered fractionally. The hand next to Chris twitched slightly. Chris reached out a shakily and grasped it, feeling that it was only narrow, brittle bones with loose skin, too weak to squeeze Chris' hand in return. Chris' throat was suddenly too tight to speak. He could only muster a weak smile as his grandpa slowly, haltingly opened his eyes.

The old man's face twitched weakly as he recognized the boy that sat at his side. He made a hoarse, rasping noise, and Chris blinked furiously when he realized that his grandfather was trying to say, "Hey, kiddo."

"Hey, grandpa," Chris whispered, his own voice also hoarse from lack of use. He tried to smile; he really did, but it was hard. So incredibly hard… "I'm here, grandpa. I'm here, now."

And that's when he heard it.

"_Chris._"

Harry.

Chris slowly, slowly closed his eyes. This was not happening. Harry sounded desperate- something had _terrified_ him. He couldn't do this. Not now. -His grandpa gently, gently squeezed his hand, clearly asking what was wrong.

Chris couldn't help the small, slightly insane chuckle that escaped his lips. Victor was literally on his death bed- the bed he honestly would shortly _die_ upon, and he was asking whether _Chris_ was okay.

Chris opened his eyes, unable to hide the tears that had welled up. "I'm fine, grandpa." He gave a small, broken laugh. "Aren't I always?"

"_Chris! We need you!" _Now there was real panic. Chris closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. Harry would be fine. Chris wouldn't- he needed time. _"CHRIS! PLEASE!"_

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"What?" Malfoy asked, apparently before he could stop himself. Movements of confusion whispered through the ring of Death Eaters. Malfoy brushed it aside after a short pause. "Whoever that is, he cannot hear you, Potter, as I am sure you realize. No one can help you this time. Not your precious little Order- not even Dumbledore. Nobody knows we got through while the barrier was down, you see. …So, no decision? Maybe to help you decide, we should start killing? Do you think we won't?"

As if understanding a command, the Death Eaters moved as one, aiming at Ginny alone.

"_AVADA-"_

"NO!" Fred, George, Ron, and Harry moved as one to tackle her out of the way. The five fell to the ground and scattered as the Death Eaters instantly began firing off Killing Curses at every red head in sight.

"CHRIS!" Harry yelled, abandoning all pretenses and praying to whatever deity existed that someone would hear him as he and Ron dove wildly behind dining room chairs. "CHRIS! PLEASE! _ANYONE_!"

"HARRY!" Ginny shrieked and hastened to duck beneath another flash of green as a Death Eater appeared at Harry's shoulder and made to grab him. He instinctively threw himself into the man and caught him off guard. As he and the man fell to the ground, he felt a curse whoosh past his ear with the force of a bullet and ricochet off a glass cabinet. He heard someone scream out just as his own arm collided with an overturned chair and made a resounding _crack_.

He grimaced and clenched his eyes shut as pain seared through the limb. A scream ripped through someone's throat on his left, coupled with an older man's loud swearing. Another prominent green flash soared at a messy mop of red, and there was the sound of screeching wood on hardwood floor. Harry's face was screwed up in anguish as he looked around for Lucius and his wand, only to find him clear across the room, watching the fray with a satisfied smirk. There was no way Harry could make it across the room without the protection of a wand. Struggling to catch his breath, Harry shouted desperately, _"CHRIS!"_

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"Go." The single word shone clearly in Victor's sunken brown eyes, though his voice was indistinguishable. Victor always knew when Chris was needed elsewhere.

Chris squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head firmly, more to convince himself than his grandfather that he wasn't leaving. Harry's calls were becoming more insistent. Something was going very wrong. Chris opened his eyes and blinked rapidly at the ceiling.

He couldn't ignore this. He couldn't ignore Harry when something was obviously so incredibly wrong. As he realized what he was going to do, Chris felt a huge weight pressed down unto his shoulders, and his face was strained to remain in the least bit controlled.

He looked back down to his one and only grandpa, struggling furiously to keep the tears from spilling over.

"Wait for me," he whispered softly, giving the old man's hand a gentle squeeze and quickly swiping at his eyelashes with his other hand. "Please wait for me, grandpa…"

The old man's lips twitched into the ghost of a dying man's smile, and his dark eyes twinkled like fading embers. He would fight until his last.

Chris gave a tight nod in acknowledgement, until to speak through his constricted throat. …With only one last look at his living grandpa, he flamed out before he could change his mind.

**

* * *

A/N: The next chapter will be a long one, in response to some wonderful reviewers. : ) Be looking forward to duels, fathers, and revelations in Chapter 23!**


	23. Of Claustrophobia

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Shoutouts! Thanks to Werepuppy Black- the coolest reader at the moment for helping me out of a block on the chapter, Witty Kate **(this is a bit longer than 50 words... :)),** Maggy **(nice to hear from you, thanks for reviewing!)**, Anon **(Yes, ma'am! -salutes-), **Embry **(thanks! I love hearing that I'm keeping it realistic; always a relief), **luv me xoxo Gossip Gal **(that was fun, figuring out all the letter names. Thanks for reading!), **Potterwing **(lol, thanks), **pinkphoenix1985 **(thanks!), **artsfan **(wow, loved the review; it made me smile. And I kind of meant for it to be unlike Harry to say that to Dumbledore- shows that Chris is rubbing off on him a bit), **Maiqu **(thanks for reading!), **HalfbloodPrincess221 **(thanks. Would you believe that Dumbledore is my fave character in the books? I'm definitely not showing it, lol), **redrobin **(great hearing from you!! Thanks for the review :)), **History Buff 1990 **(I'm glad I could make you smile! Thanks for the review, as always.), **dreamgirl93** (thanks for reviewing! nice to hear from you. :)), **forestwife **(oh, I know how sisters are -grimace- and I'm glad I brightened your day; 'sno problem. :)), **Charmedgrl4ever** (oh, no, Hermione and Chris are not getting together- ew. And I'm glad you found the emotions in that chapter. I spent so long trying to get it all as I saw it, it's nice to know you felt it, too. And I'm not going to say Wyatt will show up and save the day or anything, but I CAN tell you that he will be showing up, fairly soon... -wink-. I hope you like angst for that chapter... and thanks for the review, again!), **AmarieElfMaiden **(that would be such a good idea, wouldn't it? But, sadly, not in THIS chapter -sighs-. Thanks for reviewing!) **ColorsOver **(that was a great review; thanks for reading, and I'm glad you like it!), **I look harmless but just wait **(OH MY GOD I could not stop laughing at your opening sentence! That was great. And I know what you mean, a happy Chris just ISN'T how it's supposed to be, as much as that sucks), **NaruXHinata Rules **(thanks for the review, again! I'm glad I'm keeping you interested -winkwink-), **allenterrill **(great hearing from you! I'm happy I've snagged you into the story, lol)**, addy9ring **(I don't really know why, but I find your username really interesting... anyways, thanks for reading! Great review; and I hope to hear from you again!), **RuByMoOn17- thanks as always!! - Neb92 **(I know I'm evil, and isn't it fun? lol, thanks for the review, and I'm so sorry I forgot to give you a shout-out last chapter! -sadness- Really sorry. WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO UPDATE ADOPTED?? I love that story; seriously. And thanks for the review :)), **xcharmedgirl4evax **(I'm glad you like it, and thanks for reading!), **Audrey, it was so nice to hear from you! Thanks. Whiteninjetti **(thanks! So I'm keeping your attention, huh? lol. Seriously, though, thanks for not giving up on me- and reviewing!), **wiccanforever** (hey give him a chance, will you? lol. Thanks as always!), **Bobby Lock, Jr. **(Please don't read any further. I'm not kidding. If you're reading this now, just stop and go spelunking. Be happy- but thanks for reading all that year and four months. It meant a lot), **charmedl0ver **(thanks! He still flames because the Elders forbade him to use whitelighter powers, and he's got power over fire, so it's not really 'evil' so much for him. And thanks for the review!!) **Fae Child19 **(I know, right? -thanks!!), **WHYBENORMAL93** (nice hearing from you! And I love your name. Thanks for reading!), **WickedNut** (thanks; always great hearing from you! Your username just makes me smile by itself :)). **PAKSENNARION!** I've missed you, and thanks for that super-long review- awesomeness. It was at least as long as my first chapter, lol. And don't worry, the next chapter is going to have SO much angst; I still love it, too. :) And I know that was out of character for Harry and Dumbledore; I was just trying to show that Chris is starting to rub off on him. And you'll find out about the hospitals next chapter, -I think... It's going to come up again, soon, anyway. I like all your random ideas and thoughts, several I've already got plans for, so you'll be happy you called it this soon. Damien is coming back, I'm pretty sure. It's not vital to the plot, but I've been thinking of ways he could come in for a while. He's so my favorite character to write, I think I've been going through withdrawl without him... lol. Anyway, thanks for reviewing again! Loved it! Hope you like the chapter. :)

Everyone thank Stoneage Woman, again! She had a lot of good pointers for this chapter! :)

**Chapter 23: Of Claustrophobia**

Chris appeared in a whirlwind of flames, his face tightly closed, but Harry could feel his suppressed power pulsing through the room like caged fury. 

As Chris threw out a hand and sent five Death Eaters crashing through the wall to the parlor, Harry could help but think- _they were saved_. 

After the first five were thrown through the wall and knocked unconscious, though, the element of surprise was fairly lost. The next three tried, successfully, to block the same type of attack and in turn slashed their wands in identical motions at Chris. Harry felt the force of the red beams blow his hair back, even from the opposite side of the room, and could only watch as they soared straight at the would-be savior. Chris made no move to block these, but allowed the vicious-looking curses to pass straight through him- intangibility- as he made a sharp, sweeping motion in the Death Eaters' direction. A great leash of fire whipped out of nowhere, and Harry and the Weasleys ducked even lower behind their hiding places as it whipped around the room, gaining momentum before it flew, roaring, at the Death Eaters. 

"Chris!" Harry gasped, horrified at what he was seeing. He wouldn't really kill them, would he?

Chris threw a distinctly filthy look at his Gryffindor comrade. "Thanks for the faith, oh Superior One," he drawled as he directed the flames in a circle about Voldemort's followers. Apparently, he had heard Harry's fear on some level, and he wasn't impressed. The Halliwell tightened the flames so that they were mere inches away from catching the Death Eaters' robes afire and strode closer to the three. He narrowed his eyes, and their hoods were thrown back by an invisible force. Harry instantly recognized Dolohov and McNair, but the third was unfamiliar and generally unremarkable. Without a word to them, Chris turned slowly around and gazed about the room, clearly seeking something. There was a distinct predatory sense about him. After a moment, a twitch of his lips almost betrayed a smile, and his eyes turned downward to the right, almost as if he could see behind himself.

"Lucius, Bella," he addressed seemingly no one. Harry hadn't even noticed Malfoy vanish until Chris said it, but now he saw not only Lucius materialize out of the shadows behind Chris, but Bellatrix Lestrange walk out from the shadows in front of him. Chris turned his eyes up to meet Bellatrix's, the smile definitely playing on his lips now. 

"Chrissy Halliwell," the woman teased with a malicious gleam in her sunken eyes. "It's been too long."

"Oh, contraire. It hasn't been long enough," Chris returned easily, then turned his stormy green eyes to Lucius. "You, I could do several lifetimes without ever seeing again. How's that hernia?" He cocked his head to the side, much like a curious small child with a magnifying glass and ants. 

Malfoy's face burned crimson for a moment, and he replied in a tight voice, "Not a problem, I assure you, _Lord Christopher_." He seemed to be swallowing a lemon judging by his expression as he attempted to regain his composure. After a moment, he apparently got it down, for his characteristic pale skin and haughty posture returned. He stood up straighter and took long, graceful strides around to Bellatrix, never taking his eyes off his adversary. He continued with only a little awkwardness. "You've been busy since you disappeared, haven't you, _pet_? Quite the talk of the… _war_, more or less."

Chris smirked. "And you're wondering why you couldn't have known that, gee, I dunno, seven months earlier? Tough, man, tough. Now, _I_ have a question. What do you think you're doing here, _love_?"

Lucius stiffened at that. "Surely even you know who Harry Potter is? I'm sorry to tell you, Chrissy, but you've just found yourself caught between two wars. You might want to step aside and let the big kids handle it," he taunted mockingly, and then finished in a cold growl, "It's a hard game, boy."

Chris lashed a hand at Malfoy and sent the blond careening onto the dining room table, where he was held down with a threatening sheet of fire, roaring and curling a centimeter above his shocked face. 

Chris scowled disdainfully. "Then you might want to learn to play it, big boy."

Malfoy didn't dare move to reply, but Bella cackled wildly. "I told you this one had class, Lucius! Oh, Chrissy, Chrissy, Chrissy…."

Chris rolled his eyes and commented to the Weasleys and Harry, "Would one of y'all mind conjuring ropes for him? I really don't think I can fight Bella and concentrate on holding him down at the same time."

Bella cackled once more. "Ooh, was that a compliment about my skills from the great Christopher Halliwell himself? I didn't know you were _capable_ of such sweet-talk, baby," she cooed mockingly, her eyes gleaming insanely.

"Malfoy has our wands," Harry retorted, scowling darkly at the deranged witch. Chris sensed so much sudden rage from Harry that he actually turned to stare- which was a mistake. Bella threw a curse at him so fast he didn't have time to dodge. He barely gasped, but it was enough surprise to activate his power of intangibility, so he only felt a split second of pressure before it passed through. 

Bella screamed with insane delight at the action. 

"I didn't mean you were powerful, my dear little psycho," Chris returned in strangely cold, yet dulcet tones. "I just meant you were freakin' fast. I won't be making that mistake again." He now turned to Harry and said quite calmly, "Please take care of Lucius and the other lackeys. My advice would be to tie them up in the basement if there is one, and then stay clear of this room." He glanced at Bella, who was watching the exchange with a delighted gleam in her eye, and finished just as evenly, "This duel is about to get ugly."

It was lucky Harry and Ron knew Chris so well, or else they might not have had time to react as Chris released Malfoy and immediately began the duel with Bellatrix. 

Harry and Ron already had a running start and managed to tackle Malfoy to the ground before the man could even raise his wand. Ron punched him hard in the face, effectively dazing him as Harry grabbed his and the Weasleys' wands from his inner robe pocket. He picked out his quickly and tossed the rest to the other youths. Fred and George immediately began conjuring ropes and securing the unconscious Death Eaters while Ginny and Ron bound the three still encircled by the lasso of flames. The fire vanished almost instantly, though Chris didn't even look in their direction. 

"Mr. Malfoy," said Harry coldly as he put a full body lock jinx on the man and stood up above him. "I don't appreciate you trying to kill my friends. You should have figured that out by now, I think."

"Good one, Harry," said Fred, appraising the wholeness of the jinx. He swished his wand and the blond Death Eater was added to the floating mass of unconscious Death Eaters being directed to the basement door. "Well, Lucius, aren't you going to have fun being in the care of the Weasleys? I'm planning the fun and games, already…" 

Harry glanced back to Chris as the Weasleys herded the Death Eaters to the basement. The two appeared to be holding a conversation as they threw potentially lethal curses faster than Harry's eye could follow.

"Well, Tom and I were happy until you stole him from me, you home-wrecking slut!" Chris retorted mock-angrily as he deflected a scarlet ball of magic and threw it back at her just as she threw a lightning fast jet of yellow and absorbed the first ball of scarlet. She had to conjure a shield to reflect the yellow jet that was aimed back at her. 

"YOU DARE SPEAK HIS GIVEN NAME?" She shrieked in outrage and shot a jet of green at the offending teenager, who moved a table fragment in front of himself at the last second and flung a pointed chair leg at her heart. She set it aflame and it disintegrated in a flash, but not before she threw another curse at him. 

Harry's head hurt just watching the two going at it. Within a second, the air was filled with multicolored jets, streams, spheres, waves, and random objects until Harry no longer knew which was created and/or reflected by whom, but at least they seemed to know what they were doing. The two were moving so fast now, jumping, ducking, rolling, and sprinting that Harry, caught in his need to help Chris, would have aimed a good curse at Bella had he not been afraid of hitting Chris in another split second position swap. He was amazed they were managing to even stay in one room, they were moving so much. And they were _still_ talking. 

Apparently, Harry had missed something in those thirty seconds he was trying to follow the movements, for suddenly Bella was slammed up against the wall and Chris was advancing in full strides towards her. He dropped to his knees as soon as he reached her form, which was crumpled up on the ground, and reached down to pull her face up. They locked gazes, both equally unstable, one just better at hiding it. 

"No remorse?" Chris asked quietly, not releasing her eyes, though he let his hand fall. "No guilt, no sorrow, no _anything_? How do you think that's fair?"

"Even you don't still believe life is fair, Chrissy," she responded softly, her chest heaving as she slowly sat up. "But, in a few more years, you'll be where I am; don't worry. Emotions just don't last, babe. Not in our line of work, and especially not after childhoods like ours, they don't. Just get used to it."

"You are one insane bitch, Belle," Chris smiled dryly. "You tortured me _yourself_ trying to get me to turn. You know I'm never going back to your line of work. Tell your _boss_ to get used to it." He stood up, but she stayed where she was. He glanced back down at her as he turned to walk away. "And, for the record, you don't know anything about my 'childhood.'" 

He turned again and now faced Harry. "You've got it from here?" he asked evenly, and Harry, seeing Bella still watching them, flicked his wand and sent ropes to tie her wrists. She, strangely, did not defend herself, but continued watching them almost hungrily. 

Harry, suppressing a shudder, looked back to Chris to find him just as calm and collected as ever. He nodded tightly. "I'll tell Dumbledore. He'll know what to do with them."

Chris nodded just as the Weasley children returned, all looking grimly triumphant. There was a moment of blank silence as Chris seemed rather distracted, and then Chris' eyes widened fractionally. "I can't flame. I can't orb or teleport _at all_."

Harry blinked. "Oh. Uh… it's probably the wards. You should be able to go when Mrs. Weasley gets back, which should be any… second…" He trailed off, seeing Phineas Nigellus walking through the portraits towards them. 

The painted man coughed pointedly to get everyone else's attention, then drawled quite snottily, "Dumbledore would like Chris to get to the basement immediately and stop the Death Eaters' spell casting before it is irreversible."

Harry blinked as Chris didn't even hesitate. The American raced so fast through the walls that he might have found out how to teleport, after all. Harry directed his attention almost instantly back to the portrait. "What's happened? Does Professor Dumbledore know how the Death Eaters found us?"

Of course, Phineas made a snide comment about how children always thought they were involved and needed to know everything, but he stopped rather abruptly, appearing to listen to something beyond their range of hearing. Without a word, he walked back up to where Harry knew his portrait was, probably to go back to the version in Dumbledore's office. 

There was silence as Harry and the Weasleys shared tense looks. Several minutes passed in silence. After a few more, slight movement to the side of the room caught their eyes, and they twisted around to see Chris placing something behind the battle-scarred china cabinet. Harry frowned as Chris began walking back out of the room without so much as a look at them.

"Chris!" he said, causing Chris to pause and cast a raised eyebrow in his direction. Harry, who thought his curiosity was justifiable this time, felt exasperation at being treated to that look again. He finished rather weakly, "What are you doing, now?"

Chris held up a fist, which held two baseball-sized crystalline rocks. "Protection crystals. Placed at the north, east, south, and west corners of the house, they should keep evil out," he responded bluntly, then continued on his way out of the room. 

"God, he's weird," Ron sighed well after Chris was out of earshot.

A prim cough attracted their attention again, and Phineas Nigellus appeared in the same portrait. "Dumbledore would like me to inform you that he is working quickly to identify and reverse the spell allowing Voldemort to find the headquarters. At the moment, however, he would advise you to stay out of the Death Eaters' reach, and stay together until Molly, Bill, and… that Veela girl arrive. He has sent word of what happened here to them, so they shall be prepared. -Where is Christopher?" he added sharply, noticing that the last Gryffindor was not present.

"Here," said Chris as he walked through the wall beside Phineas' portrait and joined the group. "The spell the Death Eaters were attempting was to trap us here and only let in their reinforcements. I hate to say it, but they were almost finished by the time I silenced them."

"Silenced?" repeated Harry, suddenly anxious.

The look Chris shot Harry could have burned water to ash. "One more comment, Harry. I am _daring_ you to make _one more _comment like that." 

Harry felt his face blushing crimson. "Right. Sorry," he mumbled.

Chris rolled his eyes. Phineas cut in loftily, "You know, the name of that spell might be helpful."

Chris shot a sidelong look at Harry before answering, "It's relatively new. No one would know it."

"Oh? Says you," Phineas returned, examining his fingernails aloofly. 

"Yes, I do, and seeing as I'm the one that created it, I think I would know," Chris replied coldly. "This is only its second using- that I know of. Anyway, the point is, I pretty much made it irreversible except to the person or persons that cast it. Tell Dumbledore he'll have to use the Death Eaters we've captured as leverage to get Voldemort to undo it."

Phineas, after giving Chris a strangely piercing look, merely nodded and walked back up to his own portrait. Chris sighed heavily and oddly began edging into the parlor. 

Harry and Ron shared frowns and walked after him. 

"What does that mean, only reinforcements can get in?" Ron asked, watching as Chris quickly appraised this room with a frown and began edging into the next. Again, he and Harry shared confused glances. "Does… that… mean my mom… and the others… can't come back? What are you _doing_?" he finally demanded as Chris went through the same process of with the next three rooms

"Um… they didn't finish all of the spell, so I don't really know what it's good on and what it's… not. Okay, before I start freaking out, is there a single damn window in this entire house?" he asked rather weakly after finding the next door led to a closet. 

Harry blinked, his next thought going something like, _Oh, damn_. "There… er… _used_ to be. But the Order decided they were too risky- not thick enough to hold certain protective spells- so they…" he mimicked waving his wand. "_Poof_. Gone."

Chris stared at him. Harry stared back, feeling a strong sense of liquid cold dread pouring into his stomach. _Well_, Harry thought as he began to experience a strange sort of guilt- after all, the protective spells had been mostly for him-, _at least there had only been one window to _begin_ with_. 

After a moment, Chris just swallowed thickly and gave a tight nod. "Right. Of _course_. Because this day has already been so _fucking fantastic_-" he cut himself off abruptly and stared hard at the floor.

There was a moment of silence. Hesitantly, Harry inquired, "How… er- _bad_ is your… claustrophobia? I mean… are you going to be…?"

"Okay? Yeah. I'll live," said Chris tonelessly. He slowly looked around himself again and muttered, "At least it's not exactly a small house…"

After another moment, Harry and Ron mutually began to walk towards the dining room, where the twinsand Ginny were just greeting the newly Apparated Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Fleur. Chris followed them silently.

"Try teleporting now," Harry said quickly, sensing the wards still down to let the others through. Chris got the previous distracted look in his eyes, but nothing happened. The Halliwell sighed quietly, and Harry though he heard a few violent swearwords come out with it. 

Harry's shoulders slumped. Now, thanks to him, Chris would be stuck in a huge box for God knew how long while his grandfather was dying in a hospital several thousand miles away. _Great_. 

Once Mrs. Weasley was done clinging to each of the twins and Ginny, checking for mortal wounds herself, she said rather breathlessly, "Dumbledore said one of your classmates would be staying with us- a Halliwell-?" the end seemed to be a question as she glanced about the room for a new face. Chris unnecessarily held up a hand. 

Mrs. Weasley screamed and her hand shot to her wand. Bill moved defensively up beside her, but seemed to wordlessly keep her from jinxing Chris on the spot.

"You're Lord Christopher," Bill said softly, but sharply, his hazel eyes locking onto Chris' stormy green. "What are you doing here?" 

"No, I thought the 'Lord' part was a little presumptuous, so I dropped it a while ago," Chris responded rather shortly, clearly not pleased with their immediate recognition of his former actions. "I prefer just the Chris, now."

"How could _you_ be a Halliwell?" demanded Mrs. Weasley in something like a snarl. "They would vanquish you on the spot if they ever found out what you've done!"

Chris' expression darkened. He seemed to really be biting his tongue, Harry noticed and felt himself stiffen at the tangible tension in the air. He stood determinedly beside Chris, though. 

Mrs. Weasley scowled, but likewise seemed to bite her tongue. There was a tense silence.

After several more seconds that lasted lifetimes, Bill finally broke it. He spoke in the same soft voice, still looking directly at Chris, "Well, if Dumbledore trusts you, it looks like we have to as well. He reckons it could be several days before he gets everything under control again, so we'll all be stuck here for a while, and we might as well get along." He held out his hand, "I'm Bill Weasley."

Chris, those very familiar doors behind his eyes slamming shut, shook his hand. "Chris Halliwell."

Bill nodded, confirming the olive branch, and continued the introductions. "This is my mother, Molly Weasley, and my fiancée, Fleur Delacour." Fleur smiled stunningly, leaving the room feeling as though there suddenly wasn't enough air in Harry's opinion. 

"Oh, blimey," said Fred, smacking his forehead. "We've been here the whole time and haven't introduced ourselves. I'm Roger, and this is my twin, Roland," he motioned to George.

Bill, Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Ginny, and Fleur all rolled their eyes. Chris sighed and stated bluntly, "Fred, right? And he would be George. Thanks, man, I've got it."

Fred blinked. He turned to George and said in a stage-whisper, "_He's good_."

Chris rolled his eyes. 

Within the next few hours, Bill conjured another bed in Harry and Ron's room for Chris since many of the Order members had personalized the guest rooms, and the Black House's occupants generally scattered. Chris pretty much holed himself up in the extensive library, much to Mrs. Weasley's annoyance (apparently, she didn't like the thought of him in the presence of so many Dark tomes), Fred and George had returned to their room to reply to mail orders for their shop, Harry and Ron were talking under the guise of playing chess, Bill and Fleur vanished to their room to do who-knew-what, and Ginny and Mrs. Weasley were talking over tea in the kitchen. Every so often, Mrs. Weasley would check the basement to make sure the captives weren't trying anything, or send the portrait of Phineas Nigellus to Dumbledore for an update. 

More hours passed. As the Weasleys, Fleur, and Harry sat down to dinner, Mrs. Weasley commented mostly to her children, 

"Your father isn't coming back here until Dumbledore finds a countercurse or Christmas Eve, which ever comes first. He reckons if the curse can't be lifted, he can afford to miss a week to spend Christmas with us." There was obvious discomfort in her voice, and they all knew she was split between worry over his job, and worry that he couldn't spend Christmas alone. 

Harry felt as if he were intruding on a family matter, again, and concentrated on his fish. He knew the Weasleys depended heavily on their parent's only job, although he did think Fred and George wouldn't hesitate to help out, now that they had the means. The awkward silence was short though, for Fleur asked conversationally, 

"Where is zat Chris boy? Surely 'e cannot still be _reading_."

"You'd be surprised," said Harry, poking at his potatoes moodily. "He can be worse than Hermione, sometimes."

Fred and George faked heart attacks and strokes respectively. "Impossible!" gasped George. 

"The Y chromosome forbids it!" proclaimed Fred with theatrical horror. 

Harry decided that when Mrs. Weasley chopped her fork so hard into her chicken that he felt it all the way down the table, it was time to speak up. "Mrs. Weasley, he really is good, now," he voiced, and everyone else's conversations stopped instantly. He felt himself blush slightly at everyone's undivided attention and hastened to get to the point. "I mean, he'll admit that he wasn't- or _isn't_- always, but he's saved my life several times this school year, and… well… he really deserves a fair chance. He's sacrificing a lot to be here right now; more than even Dumbledore knows. I don't think we need to alienate him like this."

"Harry, mate, Chris does that himself all the time," Ron pointed out, alluding to the fact that Chris was not eating with them. Harry couldn't help but concede Ron that point. Chris really did avoid the Great Hall sometimes just to stay away from company. 

Harry merely sighed. "Yeah, well… I just think everyone needs to be fair."

That night passed, and Harry noted Chris had not so much as entered their room since he arrived. Harry couldn't blame him. Even he felt that it was a bit constricting, sometimes. 

As he wandered down to the kitchen for breakfast he noticed Chris sitting on the foot of the dining room table, over three quarters done with a book so huge it would have even amazed Hermione.

Harry sat down at the island counter in the kitchen and Mrs. Weasley, still dressed in a quilted purple dressing gown, immediately set to fixing him breakfast. 

"Does that child ever sit in a chair?" she asked grumpily as she bustled about, obviously referring to Chris. Harry shook his head mutely. He was quite used to it by now. "He's moved through almost every room in the house since five this morning, and not once has he used a chair… Here you are, dear…"

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry automatically, and checked his watch to see that it was only seven. No one else would be up for another half hour, he imagined. 

"And you know, Harry, dear, I tried to be civil and offer him breakfast, but he just gave me this filthy look like I'd done something wrong!" Mrs. Weasley continued ranting as she began preparing breakfast for anyone else who might show up. 

Harry arched an eyebrow as he dug into his eggs. "What exactly did you say?"

Mrs. Weasley's usually kind expression was closed this morning. "So I might have scolded him about sitting in a chair a bit, but it was nothing _personal_… And he's going to faint soon, if he doesn't eat. He didn't have lunch or supper with us yesterday at all."

Harry couldn't help but snort at the image of Chris swooning- which wasn't wise while he was drinking orange juice. Citrus burns when it comes out the nose. Harry took a moment to cough before choking out with a slight laugh, "He's not as weak as he looks, Mrs. Weasley."

"Curb thine tongue, O Chosen One," drawled a sarcastic voice as Chris appeared in the doorway and Harry found himself surprised at the usually collected teenager's appearance. He was not as collected, even in tone, as he usually was. The bags that were normal under Chris' eyes had sufficiently doubled in darkness, and his complexion was almost to the point of being sickly pale. There was a certain shakiness to him that was barely, barely detectable, but present nonetheless. It was actually quite startling. When he started speaking again, Harry snapped his attention to his words instead of his surprising appearance. "Phineas wants to talk to you, Molly. He's in the dining room."

Mrs. Weasley gave a stiff nod and left the room, unsmiling. 

Chris and Harry watched her leave, then Chris leaned wearily on the counter. 

Harry watched with concern. "Are you all right? You look awful."

Chris rolled his eyes. "_Thanks_. But you know how I said at least it's not a small house?" Harry nodded mutely. Chris finished plainly, "Well, it's getting smaller every second."

Harry grimaced sympathetically. "And there's no spell or anything to help? At least temporarily?" Chris shook his head. Harry sighed and stared at his plate. Half-heartedly, he offered, "Want some breakfast? Mrs. Weasley really is a fantastic cook."

Chris' face turned even whiter as Harry held up a forkful of eggs, and he practically ran out of the room, slightly green in complexion. Harry grimaced again.

That day passed torturously slowly. Chris could no longer stand to stay in one room more than half an hour, so he could actually be found mingling with the people in whichever room he was occupying for the time. It turned out, he, Fred, and George could go at it for hours, as the twins were willing to follow him into random rooms without asking questions. Their conversations of pure witticism left Harry, Ron, Ginny, and even Bill laughing. 

"We like this one, Ronnikins," Fred declared happily, throwing an arm around Chris, who promptly fell straight through the side table he was sitting on in the parlor and caused the twins to burst into laughter. "Why couldn't you have found him for us sooner?" Fred asked just as brightly once Chris had gotten back up. 

As Fred, George, and Ron got into a debate over whether Ron could have gone to America as a small child to pick up Chris or not, Chris quickly and quietly slipped from the room. 

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Bill Weasley was a cool guy. At least, he liked to think he so. People would usually describe him as the fair one, a level-headed thinker. He wasn't quick to judge, and he normally took things in from all perspectives before he made a decisive move. And, of course, he wasn't afraid to be decisive or bold. He was still quite a Gryffindor. That's why his attitude towards this Chris Halliwell was more curious than suspicious- unlike his mother's. 

He had, of course, heard of Lord Christopher; that character had made several appearances in the _Prophet_ since his Wizarding debut. As a member of the Order, Bill had naturally been concerned over the two American dark lords, but not one issue of the Prophet mentioned the fact that the younger one was a Halliwell. Being a Curse-breaker in ancient Egyptian tombs, Bill had needed N.E.W.T. level History of Magic classes, and several topics were discussed that Bill swore were more recent than Professor Binns' death. The Charmed Ones were one such example. And Chris acted nothing like what he would expect from a Charmed One's son. 

Bill had read about the Charmed Ones' bravery in the face of certain death, their steel resolve to finish until the bitter end, their constant quests for the ultimate, undying love, their ironclad sense of family and sisterhood, and, of course their magical adventures and mishaps. Everything they did seemed exciting, life on the edge kind of thing. 

Chris seemed quiet, aloof. Definitely sarcastic and witty when he did speak, though- the few hours with the twins had proved that. But he didn't seem to particularly care for any sort of drama or magical contest, like Bill had expected to face. Bill didn't know if he expected the drama and magic to be because of his Halliwell-ness, or his dark lord-ness, as odd as that sounded. He just hadn't expected the calm, collected kid he now watched bantering with Fred and George. 

Bill had, however, also noticed the kid moving from room to room almost half hourly without a word of explanation. _What was he doing? _As the minutes wore on in a single room, his complexion seemed to pale fractionally until he was practically white, and then the move would come. As strange as Bill thought that was, sometimes Chris would even disappear completely for a few minutes and then quietly reappear, still with no explanation, though nobody really noticed enough to ask.

So, the next time Chris did this, right after Fred threw his arm over his shoulder and caused him to fall through- _straight through _the side table without even leaving a _mark_- Bill murmured quietly to Fleur that he would be back soon and followed the Halliwell.

He followed almost a hallway behind so that he only knew the kid's direction by the corner of his cape-like trench coat as it flicked around a corner. Bill practically had to run to keep up with him once they got to the second floor, and then, suddenly the kid's jacket wasn't in sight. Bill logically concluded he must have turned into a room on that hallway, so he edged down the hall peeking into each room he passed. When he came to the partially opened bathroom door, he doubted he would find anything, but was extremely surprised. 

The kid was sitting on the floor, leaning wearily against the bathtub side with his eyes closed. His breaths were audible and shaky, and there was a very fine sheen of sweat on his face. He appeared to be muttering something, some kind of mantra under his breath. When Bill strained, he could make out the words, "Breathe," "I'm okay," and something about, "walls… fine."

After a moment of Chris' unsteady breathing, Bill decided it was time to make his presence known. 

"Hey, kid, are you all right?"

Chris virtually jumped out his skin in surprise and alarm, and wide green eyes instantly shot up to meet his. The Halliwell actually seemed a little relieved to find it was only Bill- _instead of whom?_ Bill wondered, but didn't voice. He noticed Chris give a barely traceable nod in response to the articulated query.

"Then why do you look like you've just been sick?"

The kid actually shot a look of daggers at Bill, who couldn't help but feel amused. That look was as good as admitting it. Still smiling slightly at the silent, resentful teen, Bill slowly made his way into the small room and sat down next to him to better talk. Bill couldn't help the feeling of bemusement when the kid actually flinch in response to the abrupt closeness. 

"So, kid, what's the deal? This is the third time I've seen you come up here. If you're sick, I'm sure my mum could get over your name in face of her motherly tendencies. It would be no trouble."

The kid stared at him, then blinked. He shook his head and replied in a voice that was more controlled than Bill would have expected, "I'm not sick." When Bill arched a pierced eyebrow in questioning response, Chris actually blushed the smallest bit. Of course, his face was so ghostly white, _any_ amount of blush would have shown. He mumbled the finishing words just a little. "I just… don't like… enclosed… confining spaces."

Bill could have rolled his eyes, but luckily refrained himself. "You're claustrophobic?" he deadpanned.

Chris nodded mutely. 

"That sucks, kid. Nothing I can really do about that, is there?"

"You could, gee, I dunno, _not _tell Fred and George. That might be helpful," Chris deadpanned back.

Bill laughed, a deep, reverberating sound that usually set people at ease. "Yeah, they would definitely use that against you, those two."

Chris just rolled his eyes at the obviousness of that statement, but he still looked pretty bad off.

Bill's brow creased in concern. "How bad is it, exactly? I mean, you haven't even eaten anything since you've been here, but you're still getting sick, aren't you?"

Chris shrugged noncommittally. "It's… actually pretty bad," he admitted, not really meeting Bill's eyes. "But I'll be fine. I've definitely been in… tighter spots."

"…And you rolled your eyes at _me_?" Bill arched an eyebrow again at the lame pun. After a moment, he just shook his head and asked, "So Harry and Ron know, I assume?" At Chris' confirmation, he continued, "Alright, I'll keep it from the twins and Mum, but you realized they're going to figure it out eventually, right? I mean, the house isn't _that_ big." Chris just nodded again.

Bill climbed laboriously to his feet and walked out of the bathroom, absentmindedly beginning to shut the door before he caught himself. Apparently, it was too close a call for Chris, who blanched even further and bent forward to vomit in the toilet. 

Bill grimaced. That _was_ pretty bad. 

He set the door halfway and left the kid to it. As he started down the steps, Harry appeared going up, transparently concerned. "Is he…?" Harry began, and Bill nodded. Harry sighed. "I'm on my way to ask Phineas to ask Dumbledore if we can somehow blast a hole in a wall or _something_… Chris' luck is just getting _ridiculous_…"

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris leaned back against the bathtub again, feeling as though every bone in his body was a lead weight. He was so tired, physically from lack of sleep and food, and just mentally exhausted from everything. His mind couldn't take much more of these freaking walls sneaking up on him every time he turned around. They just seemed to jump up out of nowhere, trapping him even further into a room, pretending to have been there all along but really moving forward when they thought he wasn't looking… the sneaky bastards…. They just wouldn't _stop_… and the air was just getting thinner and thinner _all the time_… How were people still _breathing_? Didn't they know there wasn't much left? Not much time left… -_damn it!_ He mentally screamed at himself for the thousandth time and forced himself to _just stop thinking_. It was stupid, illogical, and virtually impossible… so why did he _always_ freak out? 

He was so distracted by the sudden closeness of the wall to his right that he didn't notice the sound or light of the orbs that materialized next to him. He didn't even notice the whitelighter's presence until the voice announced, 

"Okay, I was going to let you deal with this until you deigned to call for a little help from _one_ of your _three_ whitelighters, but this is the third time I've looked down and seen you being sick," the voice stated, sounding a bit awkward. "So… what's wrong?"

Chris' expression of horror completely froze onto his face, the emotion itself freezing his body. James Potter was standing in the bathroom next to him, looking extremely out of place, as though he were no longer comfortable alone in Chris' presence. 

"Try to orb out," Chris managed to croak, and coughed at the disgusting taste in his throat. At James' quizzical expression, he said, "Just try it."

Blinking, James stood up straighter and his eyes distanced.

Nothing.

"Oh… shit." -Chris.

James now looked thoroughly confused. "What's happened? Why can't I…?"

"Hey, Chris, I'm going to talk to Phineas. Anything you want me to pass alo…ong…" Harry stopped in the doorway, his words dying cold on his parted lips. He stared.

Chris groaned audibly and put his hands over his face in sheer exhaustion. "_Damn_ it…"

James, who had also frozen upon seeing his counterpart, recovered gradually and let a slow crinkling grin spread across his face. "Harry," he beamed, looking like nothing in the world could distract him, now. "Oh my God, Harry…" He made as though to move forward, towards Harry, but Harry took a half-step back.

Chris frowned slightly, despite the familiar airless sensation that came from someone blocking a doorway. Why wasn't Harry freaking out and hugging his daddy and crying like a little kid?

"N-no," Harry stammered, taking another step back. His eyes were likewise glued to James. "No, you can't… can't be… here…"

James' eyes saddened almost like a switch had been flicked, but the smile remained as a reflection of that sorrow. "I am, Harry. I am here now," he replied softly, his hazel eyes welling with tears. "I'm… I'm _so_ proud of you, son… as is your mother…"

But Harry was backing up fully until his back collided with the wall. He was shaking his head as though an annoying fly were buzzing around him, and his eyelids flickered furiously. "_No_. You're not real. You can't _be_ here…" he continued to deny. "…You can't be here…"

James still seemed to understand. "I'm still _dead_, yes," he explained gently. "But have you heard of whitelighters? Well, your mother and I are Chris'… so I'm dead, but I'm here. It's really me."

"No!" Harry yelled suddenly, then began shaking his head furiously. "No, no, no, no, _no_…"

Now James and Chris were equally lost. James blinked and asked as calmly as the situation would allow, "Harry, what do you _mean_, 'no'? Why _not_?"

"_Because_!" Harry yelled again with such stress and emphasis, that Chris almost forgot about James now blocking the doorway. Harry continued just as vehemently, "Because, if you could come back, _you would have_! You never would have left me with the Dursleys _for all those years!_ You never would have let- let _Sirius_ die, just like-just like you and mum-" his voice broke briefly, and he looked away, batting his eyelashes furiously against the violently sparkling tears. After a few seconds, he continued in a voice taut with suppressed emotion, speaking as though he was trying to convince himself, "You're _not_ real. You're never real. Never when I just… just need to see you, or _talk_ to you…." his voice faded and his eyes slowly dropped to the floor. 

James smiled sadly, his own eyes glittering brightly with unshed tears. "I know, son," he whispered. "I know, and I'm sorry. But I'm here, now. I'm here, now, Harry."

There was complete silence as Harry slowly, slowly forced himself to look up and meet his father's steady gaze. And then it seemed something broke inside him. Without another word, Harry threw himself from the wall into his father and clung to him, and James, not even surprised, clung right back.

When Chris heard sobbing and heartfelt mumbling, he decided it was time to give the two some space. Dragging himself off the floor and onto the bathtub rim, he flushed the toilet and quietly walked through the wall, heading back downstairs. 

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"CHRISTOPHER BLOODY FUCKING HALLIWELL, _WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME_?" a voice roared in homicidal raged as footsteps thundered down the staircase. Chris glanced up, completely having expected this reaction to come at some point. And, as expected Harry appeared in a storm of heavy breathing and red-faced ire. "So?" he demanded, stalking through the shocked faces of the Weasleys and Fleur straight to Chris. "What's you're excuse, Halliwell? _Why didn't you tell me you were in contact with my father!" _The last part he completely bellowed, spit flying and all. 

The Weasleys all jumped up in surprise and shock, but just as Harry finished, James came strolling into the room, appearing relatively at ease. 

Chris rolled his eyes as Harry towered over him. "Because, he and I hate each other's guts, is why. I didn't want to spend hours talking to you about him when all I could really say was, 'Well, he tied me to a chair and locked me in a closet, one time.' Seriously, man. What'd you want me to say?"

"I don't care what the hell you _said_, Chris, it just would have been nice to _know_!" Harry growled, throwing his hands out in exasperation. "It's not like you couldn't have just mentioned it when it _happened_ or anything! Then it would have been just as a surprise for both of us!"

"Look, Harry I know I should have, but he just pisses me off whenever we come into contact- I'd quite frankly like to forget he even exists, really," Chris returned in even, would-be placating tones then cast a correspondingly angry look at the whitelighter. "And would you please get out of the doorway before I _throw_ your ass through it?"

James, who had been leaning against the doorframe- uneager to get involved in an argument between his son and charge-, stood up straighter, looking rather bewildered by the command. He hesitantly obliged just as well, though.

Chris gazed unseeingly at the door for moment, then closed his eyes wearily. "Too late," he muttered mostly to himself then strode quickly back up to the bathroom. 

Harry stared after him, mouth slightly agape at the abrupt departure. He had half a mind to go after him and continue yelling until he got something better than 'because we hate each other,' but the other half of his mind was registering the last part of that explanation. He spun around to face his still lost father. "You _tied him to a chair _and locked him in a _closet_?"

James' eyes went wide with his exasperated bewilderment. "Why? _Why_ does everyone think that's so horrible? He was trying to leave! What else was I supposed to do? That kid is _determined_!"

"Well- James, I take it?- locking a teenager in a closet isn't the best way to go about earning their trust and respect," Mrs. Weasley informed him, standing up and kindly walking over to introduce herself. There were bright tears in her starry brown eyes as she commented with a watery smile, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Harry watched, feeling as though he was looking through a stranger's eyes as the Weasleys introduced themselves and made comfortable small talk to his father- _his_ _father_, _James Potter_. It just felt so surreal. The man before him was everything he had seen in the pictures, the Pensieve, the graveyard at Riddle Manor, everything he had imagined and _more_. There was _life_ to this photograph of the man, life that thought and acted of its own, not just preprogrammed doings from the countless stories he'd heard. This was real, happening at that very moment. This was _his father_, his _dad_, shaking hands with his surrogate mother and asking about current happenings.

It was just so surreal. 

Harry felt relieved when James did something expected after several minutes of necessary talk- he asked about Remus. However, before Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Harry could really begin to say anything, they were interrupted by the materialization of bright blue and white spheres, forming to shape an oddly familiar-looking man.

The man, who was wearing velvety golden robes and had short, dark blond hair and timeless blue-green eyes, turned around the room for a second, appearing to look for someone. Then he spotted James. He smiled pleasantly and said, "You're James, aren't you? I really should know you, being an Elder and all, but I'm pretty terrible with names and faces."

James chuckled and said, "Yes, I'm James. What is it, now?"

"We've just found a batch of upcoming whitelighters in need of whitelighters, so everyone's taking on a new charge. Um… I'm told yours is a Gwendolyn… Rodriguez, I think?" the man, the Elder, said, stumbling slightly over the new name. "You should be able to sense her in a few hours."

James' face fell in disbelief. "Really? I've already got three _very_ active charges, you realize."

The man replied with a grimace, "I know. Nobody's happy about the extra loading, but with the whitelighter shortage and everything, we've all got to stretch ourselves a little… and as horrible as this sounds, we're going to be getting in some new whitelighters very soon, so our current whitelighters will have less charges and more colleagues… and that should help…."

James grimaced in return. "Big battle on the way?" he surmised grimly. The Elder nodded, likewise solemn. James sighed and shook his head. "Well, I hope you don't have any more people to inform of new charges," he commented offhandedly. "Because you're not orbing out of here."

The man frowned, perplexed. "Sorry?"

"Just try it."

The man seemed to concentrate, then his eyes widened. "There are wards. Why? Where are we?"

"We are at my best mate's old house, on which protections have quadrupled to better guard my son," James explained in bright tones, though his eyes were sympathetic. He moved over and sat on the arm of Harry's chair as if to illustrate his point, but Harry felt a great sense of comfort when James sneaked a grin over at him. "I don't think you'll be leaving for a while until the wards have all been worked out," James continued easily, turning his attention casually back to the Elder. "So we might as well get your name while you're here."

The Elder blinked, still digesting the information that had all been thrown at him. "Oh. Uh, just call me Leo," he replied, still slightly dazed, and Harry and James both mentally gasped in recognition. 

"_Chris… who was that man… in your dream… that was hitting you?"… "One key question Harry- did I know what the hell I was apologizing for? …Ah. Leo. …Never mind. Long story."_

"_Hey Sirius, have you found Chris' father, yet?" … "Yes, I was just coming to tell you. He's some Elder I've seen around but never really noticed. Name's Leo. Didn't have time to talk, though…."_

It was Mrs. Weasley that gasped aloud, however. "You couldn't possibly be the one-"

"That married my charge, also a Charmed One? Yes, that would be me," Leo smiled, obviously used to people making the connection.

"Oh my, I've read Phoebe Halliwell's novel, _In the Heart of A Charmed One, _and when she told of you and Piper's story," Mrs. Weasley gushed, "it was just _beautiful_….!"

And Harry could only stare, at both his father and _Chris_' father, as his mind reeled with the sudden turn of events.

* * *

**A/N: Everyone thank Werepuppy Black for her help on Harry's reaction to James in this chapter- and check out her story Tear It Up (a Charmed HP xover). Her Chris is magnificent!**

Please Review! Every word makes me smile for an hour. :D


	24. Of Escape

**Disclaimer: Standard**

**Reviews! Werepuppy Black:** Thanks! Here's Leo's reaction… **Pinkphoenix1985: **Thanks! **Dreamgirl93: **Thanks! I hope you like this chapter. **Soul of Sorrow: **Well, thanks for reviewing this time. Enjoy the chapter. : ) **Artsfan:** Lol; I loved the review! **Embry: **I like that- clawing at the doors. Great. **History Buff 1990: **Wow, I'm glad you liked the last chapter so much, lol. Let's see (counts off): There _is_ drama, swearing, violence, and God knows what else in this chapter- good call. Lol. Hope you like it. **RedRobin: **I like the way you think. : ) Nice to hear from you, and hope you like this chapter! **WickedNut: **Thanks for reading Fishy Chrissy, too! And I'll get started on the sequel soon…. Thanks! **Peppymint: **He's _really_ not having a good day. Thanks for reading! **ColorsOver: **Wow, I'm glad you liked it so much! That made me smile. Have fun. **KittyCow2004: **I did a lot better than I thought I would on the SAT –smile- Hope you did okay, too! Thanks for reviewing! **HalfBloodPrincess221: **I loved all your nice adjectives. It was fun reading. **Andrea Kamille:** ...I'm glad you reminded me of Victor... whoops. Thanks for reading, and enjoy the chapter! **loving4tomorrow: **I like Bill, too. Have fun reading. : ) **Potterwing: **I'm thinking about Lily and Sirius, but I don't know if I want them in. Would that make it too crowded? Idk. Thanks for reading, as always! **NaruXHinata-Rules:** Yes, I know I'm cruel. Isn't it grand? Thanks for the review! **Paksennarion: **Did you get my PM? If not tell me, and I'll write a response next chappie. It was _long_. -Thanks for the review yet again! **I look Harmless But Just Wait: **No, I haven't read your other story (that you mentioned). But now you can release the hostage because here's the ransom! Lol. Thanks for the review- and it really would be evil for Wyatt to torture Chris after Victor dies. Good idea... jk. Sort of. **Kylie144:** Nice to hear from you- thanks for reading! **SunStar Kitsune: **Yes, I'm cruel, and it's so much fun. Thanks for the review! **Snowangel6161: **Thanks for the review! And I dunno; adding Lily and Sirius would take up at least one chapter- would that still be interesting? **Thunderincrimson: **Ahh! Kisses! -ducks to avoid- lol. Thanks for reading! **Maiqu: **Thanks! **Charmed l0ver: **thanks for reading, as always! : ) **Xcharmedgirl4evaX: **You know these smilies :D always make me smile? Thanks! **Shada917: **Great hearing from you! And I liked the mental image :). Thanks for reviewing! **Allenterril: **You know, having Harry use the killing curse on Leo is a very good idea -ponders-. Thanks! **Kelly: **Thanks for reviewing; I'm glad you like it :). **Luca: **I'm glad you like this story :). Enjoy the chapter, and thanks for reviewing! **WHYBENORMAL93: **Aren't surprises fun? And thanks for the review! **Charmedgrl4ever: **"a few potions short of an apothecary."- I love it! And you definitely have competition for lengthy reviews, but you two tend to notice different things than the other, so better for me . I'm glad you noticed the Molly-dynamics; I really like the idea of her and Chris' interactions... But no, I looked in the 5th book at the picture, and her brothers were in the Order (they 'fought like heroes' and were killed) but she wasn't. I wasn't sure, myself until I read it five times, lol. Have I mentioned how much I really love the detail in your reviews? They're very useful when I'm not sure how to approach something I'm trying to write, because you're very honest about what you like and what you don't. It helps me. :) Thanks! **RuByMoOn17: **lol, thanks for reviewing! **Baps: **-shoulders sag- Yeah, I know they're not British enough. I'm slowly improving a little though, aren't I? -puppy dog eyes- Lol, thanks for the honesty, though. It's reminded me to not forget about that, 'cause I know I have been forgetting... And thanks for reading! **Forestwife: **Sadistic, huh? Wow, I'm good. Just kidding. I'm glad you still like the story, and thanks for reviewing again! **Wiccanforever: **Yay, angry mob on Leo! And I never liked Coop, either... Thanks for the review! **Lientjuhh:** Well, thank you for reading. I'm glad you like it :). **Cirolane: **If you like Chris fighting, you'll have fun with this chapter :). Thanks for the review! **Whitenijetti: **No, you rock, because you _always_ review! Thanks again :). **Ghanima8:** I think Grams didn't show up because Harry wasn't injured or he didn't call for her. Idk. I use whitelighters specifically for "guides" more than fighters- even though Grams is _definitely_ a fighter. Maybe she'll show up later and kick some ass. :) Thanks for the review! **Bookcrzygirl: **lol, thanks for the review. **Darkcelestial20: **Praise God if I spelled your username right :). Thanks for taking so much time to read this- I know it's long. Thanks for reviewing, and enjoy the chapter! **HikaruOfDreams: **I have too much fun with cliffies, don't I? Thanks for the review! **Neb92: **...You've barely worked on Adopted?? ...Pretty pissed. -Lol. I hope I updated before you got/get violent... -wrings hands nervously and checks behind for angry ax-wielders- And thanks for the review, as always! **Jed: **Is Billie Jenkins the one from the Billie/Christie fiasco? I didn't really like that season, so I've got no idea... And it's a good suggestion; I'm already trying to think of anyone I could pull, but I was thinking more like Darryl or his son (or that firestarter kid, or that half-manicore kid...). Idk. Thanks for the review, though! **Heiressofanor: **I'm glad you like it so much! Thanks for the review, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

**Chapter 24:**** Of Escape**

Chris leaned forward, resting his forehead on his drawn up knees, and forced himself to breathe. It was getting so old, so tiring, this claustrophobia. He thought it would make sense that it would lessen if he was forced to deal with it for so long, like he would notice nothing bad had happened yet. Like he would notice that he hadn't yet suffocated, or the walls hadn't yet trapped him immovably in a tiny, airtight box. But he hadn't noticed. Or he had, but it just didn't matter. _There's a first for everything_, his mind sneered at him, over and over… And he _knew_ the walls weren't really moving; he _knew_ the air wasn't really thinning, he just couldn't stop seeing it, feeling it. It was felt so _real_, every single time, he couldn't ever be certain it was his phobia or if it was really happening.

He leaned forward farther, forcing the breaths, trying to stop the impending panic attack before it consumed him. _If he could just breathe deep enough, it would stop_…

Minutes passed with Chris struggling, refusing to let go. He could beat it. It was a stupid phobia, he sure as hell wasn't going to let it beat _him_.

And, finally, he could breathe again.

Chris sighed, leaning back against the bathtub. _Another five minutes of peace won_, he thought grimly and rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. He was practically living off coffee, and he was _still_ exhausted. He didn't know how that was possible, but it was, as he seemed to be proving it. Then Chris groaned when he realized he was probably just vomiting that wonderful Elixir of Life up, since he hadn't had more than a few bites to eat at Grimmauld Place and he was _still_ puking. He had given up on eating here when it invariably came up two seconds later, and he had completely forgotten about food when he had been at Victor's side those four days…. Yeah, it had to be the coffee.

Chris moaned and fell over sideways on the bathroom floor. He just couldn't win.

While he lay pouting on the floor, Chris began to slowly become aware of something strange- different- in the house. A presence, a mood, a tone- changed. Chris swung back into an upright position, frowning and trying to pinpoint it.

The parlor's occupants still felt odd to his whitelighter senses. He definitely wasn't used to Harry and James being together- but that wasn't it. He rose without thought and made his way down the stairs, following his instincts. He could hear excitable voices in the parlor, but that wasn't what his senses were warning him about. He didn't want to get involved in that drama, anyway. No, instead he passed the parlor like a fleeting shadow and slid into the dining room, which then led him through the kitchen, and then to the storage basement, where the Death Eaters were tied to chairs in the center.

Or, where the Death Eaters _should_ have been tied to chairs in the center.

"Motherfucker…" Chris growled under his breath, then spun and sprinted back up the creaky wooden steps into the kitchen. He closed his eyes and concentrated harder than ever on their specific auras. They were cloaking themselves… making their way slowly towards the parlor… but if Chris could cut them off in the dining room….

He made up his mind and sprinted through the wall into the hallway along side the dining room. Before jumping out at them, like he was sorely tempted to do, he compulsorily pushed back his visible signs of weariness and weakness. Straightening himself into something that usually commanded attention and respect, something he had learned as Lord Christopher, Chris released a tense breath. Without another thought, he strode through the wall right in front of an invisible, cloaked Lucius Malfoy.

"Lucius, what do you think you're doing?" he drawled, throwing a piercing glance at where he knew Lucius' steely gray eyes were.

There the sound of an angry hiss, probably Bella, and ten Death Eaters appeared out of nowhere, already in a semi-circle surrounding Chris. Their wands- _**what were they doing with wands?!**_- were drawn, pointing directly at him.

It was warning enough, and Chris threw up a hand, sending the sudden curses back at the Death Eaters, who all flashed their wands and extinguished their respective spells. Chris stood, unmoved, and locked his eyes back with Malfoy's, almost commanding the man to speak.

Lucius obliged. "My, my, Christopher," he drawled quietly, looking down his pale nose at the teenager, but now there was a glint of anticipation- dread- in his gaze that had not been present the day before. He continued, however, as though he was certain of his superiority. "It would appear we are forced to begin the battle before we planned… but no matter. Shall we begin now, or wait for the red haired mongrels to come running?" he sneered.

"I'll tell you what, Lucius," said Chris softly, and he let the playful sneer and bantering tones drop fully from his demeanor. He looked squarely at Lucius and continued, "I have had a God-awful past few days, and it's just not getting better. I _really_ need a nice life threatening battle over all things good and evil, so what say you we drop the courtesy 'easy starters' and just get to the serious shit?"

Lucius arched a delicate blond eyebrow. "Oh, Lord Christopher wants to make an appearance, does he? I'm sure that could be arranged quite easily, if you have such a death wish, of course…. You realize there are ten of the Dark Lord's best, and only one of you?"

"Actually, that was my way of telling you _I'm_ going to skip the niceties and blast you to Hell, so you'd best concentrate on your defense, if anything," Chris replied, ignoring whatever Lucius was getting at. With that, he let the anger of being trapped, _again_, consume his entire being, and he lashed out a hand at the unsuspecting souls.

To their credit, the Death Eaters reacted swiftly. They all performed a mutual shield spell, but the effort of holding their own against the furious blast of telekinesis was too much for some, and several went crashing, screaming through walls on each side. Chris extinguished the wave of power with a flick of his wrist, but sent another blast to replace it almost instantaneously, which led to another few loosing their ground against him. He similarly extinguished this attack.

"Now that the weak have been weeded out…" Chris stated quietly, locking eyes with the last five. Lucius, Bellatrix, Dolohov, and two whose names Chris did not know, were left scowling and panting from his first moves. Chris' expression sealed, and they, sensing this, stood straighter, and raised their wands seriously.

The real dueling began.

Chris couldn't explain why he reveled in a combat the way he did. He just… _needed_ it. Magic required emotion- every little move, every little tactic and power, every initiation and execution, required emotion, required accuracy and precision. It required constant attention to every detail of each opponent; he had to know what was being done, what he needed to block, what he could throw back, what he could initiate; he had to know what his opponents were blocking or throwing back or initiating, themselves, and he had to know before they did it, or he would know it too late. He had to know where he could move, where they could move to counter, what he could use as a last resort, what they could use as a last resort, what they could all gain from their surroundings, what advantages one side had over him, or he had over them. And he had to know, without a shred of doubt, exactly _when_ it would all happen. He had to know everything at all times, and act in the one safe way for that split second's danger, then move on to the next split second's problem.

It was beautiful. The emotion required for it all was freeing as he was finally able to feel it and _use_ it- all those things he had to shove aside, shove down and out of sight. He could finally pull them back up, into the light; and not only could he pull them- he could _throw_ them, up and _out_ of him. And, at the same time, the requirements of the dance left no allowance for other thoughts. He could feel and not think about _why_ he felt such a way. He just had to let himself feel it, and that was all. It was absolutely freeing.

So Chris didn't love combat, per se, but he needed it.

At the moment It happened, however, the two nameless Death Eaters were alternatively crouching behind objects, firing off spells, and leaping into new protective spaces against Chris' responses; their spells were definitely dangerous and worth shielding from, but also the very least of Chris' worries. Dolohov was making leaps at Chris to fire spells, and dives to avoid the retaliation, scarcely pausing or wearing out at all; his spellwork took skill, and was nastier than Chris had seen in months, but it made it interesting. Lucius and Bella were keeping a rotating circle going with Chris, keeping a constant distance between them and unleashing some spells Chris had never even heard of before. Most of them, he found, could not be inhibited by his shield, and telekinesis rarely worked in sending them back at their users.

It was one of the best fights Chris had had since the good old Charmed days- until It happened.

Chris had been so caught up in the lightening-paced battle, he had not noticed the Weasleys and company flood to the doorway to see about the commotion. That was, until,

"_Christopher. Victor. Perry. Halliwell."_

The words weren't necessarily loud in volume, but there was such ice, such malice in that voice, that the voice could be mistaken for no other.

Chris froze. Without a thought about what he was doing, Chris turned. He couldn't believe it, in that split second he was turning, but all disbelief was crushed with an iron fist as It happened.

Chris locked eyes with his father- for the first time in two years.

All the strength he possessed evaporated. In the next moment, Chris didn't know if he had fallen to his knees because of the shock, or because of Bellatrix's curse that tore a hole through his side.

The teenager couldn't do more than grimace as his knees hit the hard floor and crimson blood splattered before him. He was vaguely aware of Lucius speaking in that annoying drawl as the fighting stopped, but Chris couldn't hear it; it just wasn't processing…. And then his father, with a look of suppressed fury, raised a golden-robed arm- and Chris flinched sharply, his mind reeling. But instead of the collision against his face like he had unconsciously been expecting, the sound of orbs tinkled behind him, and then appeared in front of him; his father now held all ten wands and still looked furious. Leo waved his hand again, and the sound of orbs once again came from behind Chris.

"They're in the basement," said Leo to the Weasleys, Fleur, and Potters, his face resembling a brewing thunder cloud. He handed the wands to Mrs. Weasley and continued, "The door is locked, but someone might want to tie them up, again."

And then he turned to Chris. As everyone went into a fuss about the Death Eaters' escape, the Elder strode forward and, before Chris could react at all, Leo grabbed him by the wrist and ripped him to his feet.

"What in God's name did you think you were doing, Christopher?" he snarled hardly louder than a whisper, his eyes boring acidic holes through Chris as he kept a painfully tight grip on his son's wrist. "Huh? If you were going to mess around with magic, why didn't you just do _that_?" his voice rose slightly, as he brandished his hand out to indicate the orbing of the Death Eaters- which just made Chris flinch more pronounced than ever. "Not only could you have killed them, you could have gotten everyone in the entire house killed! _What the hell did you think you were doing_?"

He shook Chris in emphasis, and Chris automatically tensed to the point of paralysis, completely unable to speak. He couldn't think, couldn't understand.

One second he was only concerned with blocking and moving in a heated battle, and now he was a small child, his father crushing his wrist and screaming in his face, making him weak, unstable- _terrified_.

Leo was saying something else, his grip tightening even more, his eyes burning in rage… and then another presence was interrupting… and Leo's grasp loosened, until he released the wrist completely… and then Chris felt the cold, hard floor against his shins again. The presence that had interrupted Leo was beside him, on the floor, too, but he couldn't raise his eyes to see who. He couldn't move; he didn't have the strength… and then an arm moved towards him, and he practically jumped out of his skin. The arm froze at his reaction, then merely proceeded to hover over the still-open wound in his side. A golden glow filled his sight for a moment, and then the numbness in his side slowly disappeared.

Chris swallowed hard as he suddenly found everything around him much clearer. He was on the dining room floor, which he had managed to forget at some point, and James Potter was kneeling in front of him, putting his hand down at his side. Chris blinked in confusion. Had James really just healed him- without first being asked? That was… well, it could have been expected, he supposed. Now James was watching him carefully, concern and confusion in his hazel spheres.

Chris just blinked, still trying to process what was going on. He looked up to find all the Weasleys but Ron and Ginny had gone to the basement, and Ron and Ginny were standing in the doorway with Harry and Fleur, alternatively talking quietly to each other and watching James and Chris. Leo- _his father_- had gone back into the parlor, where Chris could faintly hear the sound of Elders jingling.

Chris mutely closed his eyes. So he _hadn't_ just imagined his father as a reaction to Bella's curse. _Oh, damn…. He was back._

He heard James' voice as though from miles away, and his eyes reopened slowly.

"Can you stand?" James had asked, somewhat awkward, but still very concerned.

Chris, still mentally a thousand miles away as his mind shouted, _He's here; Father's here, he's back, oh God, he's back_, answered mechanically, "…Yes, sir…" and proceeded to get to his feet as the question had indirectly suggested.

There was silence, and Chris wondered dumbly why he was suddenly being assaulted by feelings of shock from Harry, Ron, and James. He had to stop himself from groaning at his slow, muddled, sleep-deprived brain as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on. The mantra, _He's back, Father's back, damn, damn, oh God, he's back…_ repeated, and repeated, and repeated…

Then it hit him. He had said 'sir,' to _James Potter_.

Chris had to stop his entire body from falling down again in plain exhaustion. He did _not_ need this, now…

"I'm going to go… now…" he mumbled, mentally altering that sentence to, _I'm going to go… kill myself, now…_. He stopped that line of thought quickly, though. He did not need that kind of attitude, either. _Especially_ not now…. Not now that _he_ was back…

He was halfway to the door when his feet just stopped. He stopped. Chris closed his eyes again and just breathed for a moment. He asked quietly, not sure to whom, "…My father's really back, then?"

"…Back?" repeated James, clearly wondering at the word choice. "Er… Leo's really… _here_, yes…"

And Chris gave a tight nod, accepting his word as final proof. He was about to continue heading out of the room, habitually towards the library, when he suddenly felt the Presence return, and the Voice said tonelessly,

"We need to talk, Christopher."

Chris squeezed his eyes shut when he froze again. Why was this happening to him? It had been two years- he was not a little kid, now! He wasn't even the same person, anymore. Why- _why_, did his father still have that power over him?

He swallowed hard and tried to force his feet to move, tried to move, _period_. He felt panic swell up within his chest when he realized he was frozen stiff _again_. He couldn't move- he was _petrified_. He couldn't move. He couldn't move- his mind was freezing up- _his father was back_- he couldn't move.

"Christopher."

Oh, God. He was using _that_ tone.

Chris felt the burning sensation of tears in the back of his throat, in the lids of his eyes.

_No_.

The voice in his conscious was strong, firm, but so damn scary. And it began repeating, repeating, _No, no, no, no_… shit, he was panicking, again…

"Christopher, _are you even listening to me_?"

And that's when Chris swung around to face him, the dagger in his sleeve falling into place in his grip perfectly.

_Do not run away, you are not a child anymore._ He told himself, barely breathing._ He does not have power over you. Do not run away. Do not run away. You are better, now, stronger. He cannot control you. Do not run away. Do not run away. Oh, God… don't run, Chris. Don't run again… You can't…_

He squeezed his eyes shut as the urge to bolt became overwhelming. Nothing else mattered, he just couldn't stay. He couldn't go through this again. His father was just the same, just the same… _Run_.

Unable to look, Chris raised the dagger. Unable to breathe, he raised the dagger. His father was speaking, daring, challenging… Chris' grip tightened, his knuckles turning white, _hurting_…

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Ten minutes earlier…  
Harry had just barely figured out Leo was Chris' father when a deafening crash carried throughout the house, and he felt his hair rustle in a rush of invisible power. Before he could ask what was going on, he found that he, along with everyone else, had jumped to his feet and was running towards the sound of the crash.

They crowded into the doorway to the dining room where those in the front feared to go farther.

"Bloody hell…" murmured Bill to Harry's right, and Harry couldn't help but agree. Chris was battling five Death Eaters, with two walls of the room completely blown to pieces and not an inch of spell-free air between them. He and the Death Eaters were all moving so fast, Harry could barely keep track of who was who, except Lucius, whose blond hair was flying and swinging as he moved almost as much as Bellatrix's. The Dark Ones' wands were flicking and weaving so fast, they were complete blurs in the spell-ridden air, and Chris' hands were moving in such quick, intricate ways, it was a wonder he knew what every moment did.

Harry was becoming so quickly absorbed in the fight, he almost didn't hear it.

"_Christopher. Victor. Perry. Halliwell_."

Leo, who stood just in front of Harry, had an expression so closed, it could have rivaled his son's, but his eyes gave it away. His eyes were furious.

Harry watched with mounting concern as Chris' face, which was barely visible with his back to them, completely drained of color and his movements froze. That was his mistake. Bellatrix took advantage of his obvious distraction to shot one last curse, which caught the Halliwell in his side. Blood splattered from the impact, and Chris sank to his knees, but his eyes weren't awash with pain- it was with something worse- much worse. They were awash with fear.

Harry didn't have to follow his gaze to know who he was looking at, although the reaction caused a freezing chill to trickle down his spine. This was too much- too extreme to just be Leo's presence. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Something was really, honestly _terrifying_ Chris. _What was going on?_

"Oh, how hard the giants fall," drawled Lucius, sneering down his nose at Chris' frozen form. He then turned his proud gaze back to the assembled crowd and sought out Harry. The sneer returned with slow prowess. "Ah… just the child we were coming for next…."

Without the slightest hesitation, Leo lashed an arm, and not only did Chris flinch so noticeably that everyone stared, bright orblights surrounded the Death Eaters' wands, and the next thing Harry knew, Leo was holding ten wands. He repeated the gesture, and not only did Chris flinch again, the Death Eaters vanished.

As Leo informed them of the Death Eaters' whereabouts, Harry almost got knocked over by Fred and George rushing off to the basement. Mrs. Weasley instructed Ginny and Ron not to move out of Leo's sight and took off with Bill after the twins.

Harry righted himself just in time to see Leo jerk Chris roughly to his feet by a wrist and snarl angrily,

"What in God's name did you think you were doing, Christopher? Huh? If you were going to mess around with magic, why didn't you just do _that_?" he threw out his hand the same as he had done to vanish the Death Eaters, and Chris flinch violently, his entire face shock white and petrified. Leo continued as though he hadn't noticed. "Not only could you have killed _them_, you could have gotten everyone in the entire house killed! _What the hell did you think you were doing_?"

Just as Harry was about to shoot forward and pry Chris out of the man's angry grasp, James moved forward with more grace.

"Leo, he's been hit with a Dark curse," James said softly as he approached the pair. "I need to heal him. You can lecture him about technique later."

And, surprisingly, Leo let go without any hostility, but Chris fell back to the ground like a rag doll. Leo sighed and shook his head. "I swear, he's going to end up learning 'technique' the hard way, some day…. I don't know why he does this to himself…."

James chuckled understandingly, but Harry stared. Okay, so Leo overreacted just a bit, but there was no reason why Chris was so utterly _terrified_ of him. What was going on? Why was Chris still not moving? Harry stepped to the side as Leo walked past him into the parlor.

"Can you stand?" James asked once the charge was fully healed.

Finally, Chris seemed to wake up. The boy blinked and looked, surprised, at James. After a moment of returning to his senses, he mumbled distractedly, quietly, "Yes, sir…" and slowly rose to his feet.

Harry was pretty sure Ron had a heart attack at this first display of manners, but he himself could only stare in amazement. Even James looked stunned.

Chris' shoulders visibly sagged when he realized the error of his ways. He sighed heavily and mumbled something about leaving, but he only managed a few steps before he stopped once more. There was a heartbeat of silence, and then he asked so softly Harry almost didn't catch it, "…My father's really back, then?"

Harry didn't know why, but he suddenly felt cold. He glanced over at Ron, who knew Chris as well as he did, to see if he had felt the strange effect, too. Ron met his gaze, also looking concerned. There was something, something more than simple dislike between the father and son pair. There was something that Chris wasn't telling them, and Harry couldn't help the dread he felt when he realized it would all too soon become clear. Ron's face showed it as well. _This was going to get ugly._

That's when Harry was jarred out of his contemplation by the gentle statement of, "Excuse me," as Leo edged back between him and Ron into the room. He paused not too far in front of them as Chris turned once again to leave.

"We need to talk, Christopher," he said simply, but the way Chris froze, he might have screamed it. There was silence. Leo's expression became mildly impatient. "Christopher," he repeated, trying to gain the boy's attention, but when Chris failed to respond in the slightest yet again, Leo demanded, "Christopher, _are you even listening to me_?"

Chris turned around so suddenly, Harry was tempted to rub the crick out of his own neck- and then he saw the long, glistening dagger.

Harry's breath caught in his throat, and he wasn't the only one. Ginny and James both gasped in surprise, but Leo didn't seem perturbed in the least. He actually rolled his eyes.

"If the first thing you want to do after not seeing me for two years, Christopher, is throw a knife at me, fine. But I'll just come back, and we'll just have to talk then. We _need_ to talk."

But it just didn't seem that simple for Chris. His eyes were closed so tightly, Harry was sure tears would spill out just from the pressure. He seemed to be completely lost, completely unstable, as he raised the blade higher and higher, until it was up to his shoulders.

"Throw the damn knife if you're going to, Chris," Leo snapped, clearly impatient by the theatrics. "Just get it out of your system, and then we'll talk."

At that, Chris' eyes flew open, and alarms in Harry's mind suddenly rang out louder than his mother's dying screams. _It was wrong_. Harry had never seen anyone throw a knife before, but he knew in the very pit of his stomach that it was _wrong_. -The way Chris gripped it- the angle he held it- _the very look in Chris' eyes_- it was all wrong.

Chris wasn't raising the dagger to throw at Leo. He was raising the dagger to his own throat.

"Chris." The word escaped Harry's cracked lips with an emotion even he couldn't recognize. But it had the desired effect: Chris' eyes shot to his, and Harry felt the look, the haunted look, pierce straight through his soul like a bullet from the damned. Then realization of what he was doing finally seemed to flood back into Chris, and his eyes widened unseeingly.

The sound of the dagger clattering to the floor filled the room even as Chris fled from it.

Leo sighed and made to move after him, but Harry couldn't help himself.

"Hey, stop!" he called in a tone he would normally _never_ use on an adult. It seemed to surprise Leo enough to actually stop him. Harry felt himself beginning to blush at everyone's incredulous stares, but he pushed that aside in the face of a greater need. "What did you do to him?" he demanded, feeling more courage than really necessary.

Leo and James both stared at him.

"What…?" Leo began, clearly not understanding the vague question, or the general situation.

"Sir, with all due respect, I've never seen Chris frightened once in any of the life-threatening situations we've survived," Harry continued, steeling himself against all the expectant gazes. "I think he was more afraid at the sight of you just now than I've been in my entire life. I just want to know what's going on, sir."

Leo stared at him, and slowly the confusion faded into a more understanding expression. He sighed heavily, and asked quite bluntly, "Are you and Christopher in a… 'relationship'?"

There was a split second's pause, then four voices exclaimed, "WHAT?"

Leo held up his hands in surrender, and explained quickly, "Nothing personal, I swear. It's just… with Christopher… it really wouldn't surprise me, to say the least…"

"Chris isn't- I mean, he isn't… is he?" Harry 'defended.' He turned to Ron, greatly disturbed. "He does have the… the _joke_ with- er- Voldemort and all, but he- it's _just_ a joke, right?"

Ron looked baffled. "I- er- think it was a joke… He said he didn't really… you know, when I asked…."

Harry grasped that stone solid proof and clung to it. "Right. So, no. He's not gay. And you're avoiding the question, sir."

Leo chuckled, "As long as you're sure, Harry," he said with an unnervingly Chris-like twinkle in his eyes. "I was just making sure I knew where you were coming from." Harry nodded for him to continue, and the man's smile faded slightly. He sighed and responded frankly, "Christopher and I just don't see eye to eye on a lot of things. We never have, really, but I haven't spoken to him in two years. Not since my wife died. He's probably just… struggling with her death, and I've reminded him of it too much. Don't worry, though," he hastened to add, as though knowing that's what Harry was so concerned about. "We'll work it out. Two years is too long a time to hold grudges, you know?"

Harry opened his mouth, fully prepared to call the man a bloody liar to his face, but promptly decided against it. He forced himself to at least take a second and think about it. Leo, when talking to Mrs. Weasley about _In the Heart of a Charmed One_, had seemed so calm and normal. He had only lost his temper when pointing out that Chris could have gotten people killed- which was a very logical reason to get angry. Sure, he shouldn't have been rough about it, but it was a perfectly justifiable reason. And it wasn't like he had screamed or hit the kid. He had just lost his temper like every human being was liable to do.

Even as Harry began convincing himself of Leo's sincerity on this account, he couldn't suppress the feeling that something was still not adding up. Chris… he had just looked too scared to be without greater reason than _a grudge_. Harry knew, just as he always knew when people were hiding something, that there was a bigger story here. And he was determined to find it now, not only for the sake of solving a mystery, but because if Chris was scared, obviously something needed to be done about it.

Harry nodded, eyes still clouded over in thought. He would just let Chris handle his father issues for the moment, and then try and get the story from him later. Yes, that was the best thing to do….

Leo smiled wryly and headed towards the door Chris had vanished through. He stopped in the arch, however, just as Chris had done, and turned back to Harry, that same Chris-like twinkle in his eyes again.

"And, just to confuse you, Harry, I would suggest you ask _Lucius_ if Chris is gay, and see what he does."

As several faces fell in bewilderment, Leo left.

There was silence. Long seconds passed.

After a length, James voiced sarcastically, "Well, now that he's cleared that matter up for us…"

They all chuckled dryly.

James rolled his eyes with a lopsided smile. "Well, be safe, kiddies. I'm going to make sure no one needs healing in the basement…"

As he, too, left, Fleur turned to the younger ones and asked pleasantly, "Shall we get started on zis mess, then?"

They groaned collectively, but helped her begin clearing the wreckage, nonetheless.

"How come Chris gets to use magic without even a warning?" grumbled Ron after cutting his finger on a busted piece of china. Fleur was working, with her wand, on reconstructing the demolished walls while the schoolchildren gathered up broken objects with their hands.

"That… is a good question…" replied Harry, not much less grouchy than Ron. There were a few seconds of quiet before Harry could no longer keep away from the topic. "Do you think Leo was abusive, when Chris was a kid?" he asked without preamble. His heart was beating in anxiety as he voiced his greatest fear at the moment, because if anyone else thought so, Harry was about to go tearing up to whatever room Chris and Leo were occupying and separate them.

The reaction was instantaneous. Fleur lost her concentration and had to dive out of the way of a crashing segment of drywall. Ron cut his finger again and yelped, and Ginny dropped the chair she was righting onto her toe.

Harry winced as they all assessed the extent of their injuries. He hadn't meant it to be _that_ sudden.

"Harry," began Ron once he was finished sucking his injured thumb. "Chris is wicked good with magic. We've seen him going at it with You-Know-Who _and_ ten Death Eaters; only one scratch, and then just because he got distracted for a _second._ I just can't see it."

Harry's shoulders sagged, admitting his friend the point. "Yeah, I know it's hard to believe now, but this is all after, you know, the Lord Christopher deal," he continued, unable to help but press the matter. "What if he wasn't like this before? Or what if Leo, I dunno, helped _turn_ him? C'mon, no kid is _that_ afraid of their dad."

The two Weasleys shrugged, looking rather lost in the matter. Fleur, however, stated factually,

"'E is a 'Alliwell, 'Arry. Zey 'ave a very large family. Would not someone 'elp 'im if 'e were mistreated?"

Harry blinked. "I suppose… but what if they didn't know?"

"If it was as bad as you're thinking, wouldn't someone notice?" responded Ron, also trying to sound factual.

Harry shrugged. He couldn't deny their points, but it still didn't feel right. "I dunno," he sighed eventually. "I just… I'm going to go check on them. I just have a bad feeling about it, is all."

They nodded, all knowing Harry well enough by then to know they wouldn't change his mind.

And so Harry stood. He wiped his hands off on his jeans and headed in the direction both father and son had gone, feeling a cold, inexplicable sensation of anticipation growing in his stomach even then.

It was interesting, Harry thought distantly, how he immediately knew which room the father and son had commandeered- it was the only room in the house that's door was closed.

**

* * *

**

A/N: Gee, that symbolism isn't obvious or anything... LoL. Thank you guys who reviewed, again! You guys kept me from my evil homework for hours- wonderful, fantastic saviors, you guys! -And there will be plenty of drama in the next chapter, so be looking forward to that!


	25. Of Fathers

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**Chapter 25: Of Fathers**

_It was interesting, Harry thought distantly, how he immediately knew which room the father and son had commandeered- it was the only room in the house that's door was closed._

Harry was about to barge in and demand to know if they were getting along, when he heard the sound of Leo's angry, lowered voice.

"-When your aunt Phoebe married Cole and became the Queen of Hell, did Piper and Paige give up on her? No, Christopher, they didn't! What are you doing going to _school_ when your brother needs you out there? How the fuck do you call yourself _a Halliwell_ when you just abandon your family when they need you? -Damn it, Christopher, _answer me_!"

There was a very, very small voice that spoke after a hesitant pause, but it was silenced almost immediately by the sound of a forceful _SMACK_.

"I am withdrawing you from that school as soon as we can get out of this place, and I am turning legal guardianship over to your brother," Leo hissed, dangerously low. "And then I don't ever want to see you again, because with this ridiculous behavior, you are no son of mine. You are no Halliwell."

Harry felt the reaction as though it had been carried into him through the sudden, unnatural wind- the stab to an already strangled, dying heart. There was again then sudden sound of a hand hitting skin, and that was it for Harry.

He whipped out his wand, feeling a sense of burning rage towards the man that was destroying his housemate faster than even Voldemort could have. Even as Leo snarled about Chris' lack of control of his powers and something about being weak, Harry slashed his wand and the door blew into shards.

He stormed into the room and, without another thought, jabbed his wand in a violent motion. The jet of read light hit Leo square in the chest and sent him careening into a hard, dark wall, where he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Harry, not thinking of what crime he had possibly committed against the 'Greater Good,' immediately looked to Chris, ready to yell at the Halliwell for not doing anything to defend himself.

The sight stopped his brewing rampage in its making.

Chris was- almost literally- falling apart at the seams.

The sixteen year old was a crumpled heap on the ground, backed all the way to the corner of the room farthest from the door. He was folded forward, unable to breathe through heavy, suppressed sobs. His eyes, which were shut so tightly he might have been trying to block out the entire world, had streaks of tears running from them, literally steaming like boiling water on his bruised cheeks. Even as Harry drew near, he felt the temperature inclining sharply. Chris was having a panic attack- _and _losing control of his pyrokinesis.

"Chris, the door is open," Harry said quickly, seeing claustrophobia as the first problem. "…Actually, it's in pieces on the other side of the room…"

But Chris shook his head weakly, not even looking as he drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face in his arms. Harry caught something about, "walls" and, "more, everywhere," between the tattered and broken breaths.

Harry knelt down beside him, worry clawing at his chest almost as fiercely as the helplessness he was experiencing. He had no idea what to do. He wasn't claustrophobic, and his father had always just been- well, _dead_. Not _abusive_. Sure, Vernon could be a right bastard when he fancied, but it wasn't as if Vernon was Harry's father; Harry never took anything Vernon did incredibly personally. And Vernon never really did anything more than throwing Harry in the cupboard, anyway.

_The cupboard_…

"Chris, I'm going to need you to trust me for a minute, all right?" Harry said as firmly as he could, knowing Chris would lose faith the instant he heard uncertainty. Chris didn't look up, but Harry detected the smallest, faintest change that indicated he was listening.

Harry nodded, trying to convince himself more than Chris that he knew what he was doing. "Good. Er… do you… er… In one of your memories I saw during our Occlumency lessons, you were outside in a place covered in snow. There were, er, mountains in the distance… and you and a girl were just standing together, looking at everything…" The most fractional nod Harry had ever seen, but it was there. "So you… you can recall that? Clearly?" Not even a nod, but Harry understood. "Okay, think about it. Recall as many details as you can. Snow and space as far as you can see. So much open space, white with snow, and the air was… was frosty when you breathed, right? There always seems to be so much air when it's cold." Again, there wasn't a nod, but Chris seemed to mutely, motionlessly acknowledge him. Harry took a deep breath and continued, "Remember the sun, how bright it was reflected off everything? Everything was clear and clean and open. Just… think about that. Remember everything you can and just… feel it. Let yourself relax and feel it like you did then."

Minutes passed. Harry just stayed knelt on the floor next to his crumbling friend. It was odd, he reflected during the slow, silent moments of Chris' recovery, how easy it had been for Leo to break the teenager. It was just surreal that Chris _had_ broken. He was always so _tough_, in control, even cold. He wasn't… simply… _normal_. He wasn't supposed to be able to break like anyone else…. He was _Christopher Halliwell_, dueler of Voldemort himself, not to mention any number of his Death Eaters. He was the classy, quick-witted bane of teachers and authority everywhere. How could he let _one single person _cut it all down? -His own _father_, no less. With his mere presence, Leo had sent Chris crashing down to the realm of mortals, where he was no more than a teenaged boy with frail and beatable armor. It was unnerving, to say the least.

Harry mentally shook his head, whether in disbelief or to simply clear it, he didn't know.

After a great length, Chris finally took one deep breath and lifted his head to lean it back against the wall. Harry sat up straighter, waiting for him to say something.

"Harry, were you thinking _at all _when you threw _your dad's boss _into a wall?" was all he croaked.

Harry blinked. "Oh. Right." Pause. "Oh, _damn_. He wouldn't… _do_ anything, would he? I mean… what can you do to… whitelighters?"

Chris smiled wryly, but it faded quickly when he glanced at the heap of robes that was his father. "Um… the Elders can do pretty much anything," he said softly, looking away quickly, his demeanor suddenly uncharacteristically skittish. He continued, avoiding Harry's eyes, "But there's always a warning first, and James can't really honestly be held responsible for your actions… so I'm sure he'll be okay… but still… it wasn't smart, Harry."

Harry grimaced in understanding and observed the other Gryffindor for a second. Then he stood and commented, "Shall we move to another room, before he wakes?"

Accordingly, Chris cast another glance at his unconscious father. His pallor seemed to double, and he nodded slowly, hesitantly. Harry offered him a hand up, but when Chris flinched violently at the sudden movement, Harry recoiled as though burned. Chris, still looking anywhere but at Harry's face, stood on his own and swept out of the room. Harry, still feeling rather disoriented by Chris' reaction, followed.

"So he was pretty bad when you were a kid, was he?" Harry stated once he caught up.

Chris shot him a quick look- and Harry was relieved to see that it was guarded once again- before the gaze swept openly around the walls; Harry was disturbed at how openly Chris let his longing for a window show. The American looked so despondent when his eyes dropped back to the floor.

"How did you know what to say back there?" Chris asked softly as they entered the library. "It actually worked, a little bit, just imaging open spaces."

Harry almost felt like blushing. "I, er… I'm not claustrophobic," he hastened to assert, "but- er- my uncle did like to send me to my cupboard, sometimes for weeks. I mean, I went to the kitchen to get food and everything when they were all asleep, but I, you know, missed the sunlight and stuff. I just… pretended I was on a beach or something, and it usually made me feel better."

His sudden abashment was not eased when Chris deigned to pierce him with an unreadable look.

"Your cupboard?" Chris repeated rather flatly.

"Yeah. My bedroom was the cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven," Harry said, shifting uncomfortably at the look Chris was giving him.

"And how big exactly was this cupboard? I thought cupboard was just some British word for closet… and closets are not big enough to fit a bed in… hence a _bed_room…"

Harry blinked. "Oh. Well, it was big enough for my mattress and a stack of clothes…."

Chris gave a slow nod, finally looking away. "And your relatives weren't… aren't… magical?"

Harry shook his head. "They're definitely Muggles." His eyes narrowed suspiciously at the second slow nod Chris gave. "…Why? You look like you're putting something together."

Chris gave Harry a brief glance before he moved over to a reading bench and sat down, unconsciously pulling his knees up to his chest. This unintentional insecurity was killing Harry.

"Well, the closet my father was fond of throwing me in was only big enough for two people to sit in, not even big enough to lie down in, and he or my mother sealed it with magic, so there was no wandering out at night for food. He usually beat the hell out of me first, though, so I wouldn't have been able to stand and walk, anyway." The bluntness with which he said it could have even shocked Luna Lovegood.

Harry's jaw dropped. "_What_? But you're claustroph- _oh_. Is that why?"

Chris shook his head, watching the ground detachedly. "He did it _because_ I was claustrophobic."

Harry, still feeling a bit stunned, moved to sit down next to the Halliwell. He took a moment just to swallow it all- it wasn't every day Chris admitted something so plainly- before continuing the conversation. "Why?"

Chris shot him another very brief look, and this one was brilliantly skeptical, before returning his gaze to the shelves. He shrugged fractionally. "I dunno. My aunts insisted my parents were under a spell; I mean seriously, why would such a wonderful, amazing, _perfect_ couple do such horrible things to their child? But they never figured it out." He paused for a while, seemingly struggling with himself and what to admit aloud, before he finally continued in a rush, "I mean, I _guess_ I agree with them- I've seen my parents with everyone else and they're really incredible, _good_ people, so it just doesn't make sense that they would hate me so much for no real reason- but then again, as soon as I come to terms with them not being themselves, it doesn't matter, because there's nothing I can do about it. As soon as my father enters the room, I'm a little kid again, so _fucking __afraid_…." He trailed off again, ending with such a note of self-depreciation that Harry grimaced just having to listen to it.

Harry shook his head, clearing the unnecessary thoughts. "Why are you _so_ afraid of him? Because he locks you in closets? I mean, I can't say I know _exactly_ where you're coming from, but I know you wouldn't have frozen like that just hearing his voice if all he did was pick at your _phobia_."

Chris blinked in surprise at Harry, but he didn't say anything. Harry leaned forward slightly, giving Chris a thorough looking at. "I think you're more than that, Chris," Harry said softly, convinced. "What are you really afraid of?"

And Chris continued staring at him, honestly taken aback. At length, however, he had to break the lock of gazes and look away. He shook his head, not moving his hair when it scattered in his face. "He just messes with my head, Harry," he muttered, his eyes a thousand miles away. "You've got no idea how he just messes with me…."

Harry stared at him for just a moment longer, thinking about everything that answer could mean, before he just nodded in response.

A knock on the side of the doorframe announced the sudden appearance of James Potter. Chris who had looked up at the sound, quickly looked away again, but not quick enough.

James frowned as he strode into the huge, book-filled room. "When did you manage to get a bruise on you face?" he asked, perplexed.

James strode nearer, clearly with the intent to heal his charge, and Chris shot to his feet. Without meeting either of the Potters' concerned glances, Chris moved around them towards the door, but froze suddenly, halfway there, his eyes wide. Harry, thoroughly confused again by the Halliwell's antics, looked to see what the problem was now, and found Leo standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. He did not look amused.

"The Elders have decided," Leo began, moving his rather cold gaze from Chris to James, where it softened slightly, "that Christopher knew it was against the rules for a whitelighter to reunite with the relatives from their past life. It's common knowledge for witches and whitelighters that the dead must lose ties with their old life." When James protested that he had no idea Harry occupied the same house as his charge, Leo smiled sympathetically. "Be that as it may," he continued more gently, "Christopher has been pushing the rules rather too much, lately, and this was the final straw. We've decided to go with the same restrictions we… _built up _with his last whitelighter. For this first time punishment, no more healing. You may continue to… _guide, and console_… him, but no physical healing of any sort." Here, he cast a sidelong glance back to Chris, whose expression was absolutely closed. His tone cold again, he muttered, "And let's just hope the punishments don't build up to the point they did with Prue. I'd hate to needlessly lose _another_ good whitelighter."

_Finally_, Chris reacted. As he swept past Leo out the door, he muttered icily, "Oh, don't worry about that. James is too much like you, Father, to choose my life over his own."

With that, he was gone, and Leo merely leaned against the doorframe, rolling his eyes. "I don't see how you ever intend to guide and console that one," he said sardonically to James.

James, however, just looked baffled and asked, "Leo, what _happened_ to Prue? No one has ever just told me, and it's getting quite confusing."

Harry, however, demanded of his father, "_Why_ did Chris just say you're too much like _him_?" he jabbed a thumb at Leo, not caring how rude he was being. When James only blinked, still confused, it struck Harry like a falling brick. "YOU LOCKED HIM IN A _CLOSET_?"

James threw his hands in the air, exasperated. "Yes, and I've been sorry ever since, Harry! I had no _idea_ everyone would hold it against me this much." He did look awfully lost, Harry had to admit.

"Dad, Leo used to lock Chris in a closet," Harry said slowly, trying to hold back his anger at them both. When James' jaw dropped slightly, vaguely understanding there might be bitter feelings about it all, Harry gritted out, "Dad, _Chris is very claustrophobic_."

Now James understood. He pale drastically and swung around to face Leo. "And _you_ still did that, knowing he was terrified?" he demanded, aghast. "God, I just wanted him to stay inside so he didn't get himself killed!"

Leo, amazingly, just shrugged. "It was pretty much the only way to get him to listen. He's a headstrong kid."

James stared at him. After a moment, he shook his head, removed his glasses, and replaced them so that they were straight. "All right, I'll admit that I don't know Chris well enough to fairly judge this, but I do think that's still a bit much, Leo," he stated evenly, then turned to Harry. "It's a problem in Chris' mind that- he thinks- I'm like his father?" Harry nodded, and James, meeting Harry's eyes with openness, nodded in return. "Then I'll go talk to him," he finished calmly.

Harry walked past Leo with his father, unwilling to stay and chat any longer. "He's probably in Mrs. Black's old room," Harry informed his father. It was the third largest room in the house, after the parlor and the library. "Do you know where that is?"

"Unfortunately, yes," murmured James, eyeing the hallways with distaste. "It's been years since Remus and I saved Sirius from this hellhole, but I remember…."

Harry, sensing an interesting story behind that statement, could only bring himself to nod. He had heard enough for one day, he thought. "Then I'll leave you to it, shall I? Mrs. Weasley probably wants to smother me down in the parlor…and I want to see what's going on with the Death Eaters…."

James nodded and flashed his son a wry smile as he stopped at the staircase leading to Mrs. Black's room. Harry stopped beside him at the stairs leading down to the parlor. "Some reunion, eh, son?" he asked, his eyes sparkling, very much alive.

Harry gave a snort and returned the sparkling look. "Definitely."

And they parted.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

James did indeed find Chris in Mrs. Black's room. He was sitting despondently atop her wardrobe, a good seven feet above the ground, and didn't even look up when James entered the room. He did, however, look when James sat down across from him on the old bed. The melancholy demeanor vanished behind a stony one. He didn't speak.

James, sensing the guardedness, sighed heavily. "I swear I didn't know you were claustrophobic," he said, hoping Chris would be able to hear his sincerity. "I just… don't have much experience with kids these days, and it seemed like a good idea… at the time…."

Chris just continued watching him with that too familiar indecipherable expression.

James sighed again and made himself comfortable. It was going to take a while, he could see.

There was silence as James merely observed the kid. He broke it by asking quietly, "So, I take it Leo did that?" Obviously, he meant the bruise, which had begun to plague his conscience for reasons he couldn't really understand.

The guarded expression intensified, and Chris moved his eyes to the wall on his right. "This matters because?" he asked in clipped tones.

James stopped himself from snapping back just in time. Instead, he took a different approach. He took a deep breath and did what he should have done weeks ago. "Chris, I'm sorry, all right? I'm sorry I was on your case about the Lord Christopher deal, and I cannot tell you how terrible I felt when I realized you had only gone to save my son. I had just… with everything I saw with you and Lily, I just hadn't expected… _you_. I never guessed you would be this _strong_ and _determined_ and… just… _good_. I'm sorry I didn't see that; I'm sorry I prejudged you. It was stupid, and I regret it- _so much_, now. I'm just… _sorry_."

He knew he had succeeded in getting something through to Chris when the boy's stormy green eyes shot back to his in surprise. Chris blinked, stunned.

James chuckled a little. "I suppose you didn't know I was capable of that, did you?"

Chris shook his head mutely.

James couldn't help but sigh again at the wordlessness. "So, what do you say? Can you forgive me, and let us… start over?"

And again, Chris just stared at him. When James refused to be the next one to speak, Chris was forced to vocalize in the most uncertain tone James had ever heard from him, "…Are you serious?"

It was James' turn to nod without a word.

Chris, still looking mildly surprised by this turn of events, blinked down at the top of the wardrobe he was sitting on. After a few hesitant moments of silence, the teenager nodded his agreement. He still didn't look at James.

James smiled sadly. "You don't trust me, do you?"

Now it was Chris' turn to smile sadly, only he directed it at the wardrobe as he shook his head no.

James smiled grimly. "Well, I'll just have to leave that part up to you. But I _can_ promise, since you so recently compared me to Leo- for whatever reason I still don't understand-, that _I will never hit you_, or lock you in a closet." There was a pause, then an abashed, "…Again."

…And Chris finally laughed.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Days passed. To almost everyone's relief, Molly had begun treating Chris more like a teenage boy than a teenage Dark Lord, meaning they were civil, but still not quite happy with each other's presence; James and Harry respectfully kept their silence from the Weasleys about Chris and Leo's one-sidedly rough relationship, and Chris' claustrophobia seemed to have lessened dramatically since Harry's intervention. Of course, Harry noticed that the room seemed to become immediately smaller to Chris whenever Leo entered it, and he usually left it within seconds, but it was still marked improvement. Chris could even be found eating small bits at meal times with everyone else, though Harry suspected every time Chris left a room after Leo entered, he was going to throw up. It still reeked in many ways, but it was better, at least.

Leo, for the most part, ignored Chris' existence. Besides that, he and Molly were quite the chatterers, and everyone admitted Leo was a moderately cool guy where Chris wasn't concerned. Even Harry reluctantly had a few decent conversations with the man. However, where Chris _was_ concerned…

"Christopher, either sit on the furniture correctly or sit on the floor," Leo said absentmindedly as he walked into the kitchen where Chris, Harry, Ron, and Ginny were sitting around talking. Chris, who had been perched on the counter beside his beloved coffeemaker, slid onto the floor and then stared innocently up at the brewing pot, which now towered a fair two feet above him. Leo rolled his eyes and took a few drinks from the refrigerator. Without another word, he carried the drinks to the parlor, where the adults were congregated.

"Wow, you didn't flee the room," Ginny remarked lightly, and Chris glanced over his shoulder at her. Even though she was talking with the group, she and Chris didn't really talk much to each other.

"Yes," Chris replied, turning his attention back to the brew above him. "It was a difficult decision, staying with the coffee or leaving the father. But I followed my heart and haven't looked back since. I just have to have faith that it was the right thing to do, and some day I'll be a better person because of it."

Ginny chuckled slightly. "Nice," she commented, then asked with impartial curiosity, "So, do you two do this little avoidance dance in your own home, as well?"

Chris glanced back at her even as he hopped back onto the countertop to sit beside his precious. "Hell, when I still lived at the Manor I'd leave the damn house if we ever ran across each other."

"You don't live together anymore?"

Chris glanced briefly at her once again as he picked up the coffee pot, but suddenly, he was staring straight past her.

His face blanched. The thin coffee pot slipped from his fingers and shattered over the floor.

"_No_."

The word whispered held so much force, so much pain, Harry felt his hair on the back of his neck prickle. He swung around to see what Chris was staring at, but found absolutely nothing. Just an island of cooking utensils.

Chris, however, continued staring at it as if his very life hung in the balance. "_You can't take him_," he breathed with the same vehemence that had set Harry on edge. "Not yet. _Please, not yet_."

Harry, disturbed by the vivid anguish on Chris' countenance, turned to look again, and before his eyes, a man appeared. The man was tall, broad shoulders, dark blond hair, and had a face that surpassed the era of man- and he was looking at Chris with sympathy.

"You know it is not up to me, Chris," said the man in a soft British accent. "I came here only to give you warning. It seems I have developed… a soft spot… for Halliwells. It really is quite unusual."

"But I can't leave!" Chris cried desperately, slipping from the counter onto his feet. "There are wards and I can't- I can't-"

"One minute, Chris," the man informed him gently.

"You can go anywhere- you're Death, of course you can; couldn't you take me with y-"

"I am afraid I cannot this time," Death spoke softly, thoughtfully, as though there was an interesting story behind it. "My… superiors… were rather displeased that I might forewarn you at all." He glanced down at something in his hand and then looked sorrowfully back up to Chris. "I must go, now." His eyes filled with even more sadness as he began to fade away. "I am sorry, Chris."

While Chris searched desperately for something- anything-, clearing panicking, Harry managed to verbalize through his own desperate confusion, "Chris… what… -who…?"

But Chris wasn't listening. With one last look to the ceiling in indescribable grief, he cried, "_WYATT!_"

A spiral of flames appeared beside the table next to Ginny, causing her to jump back in surprise. The flames quickly took the shape of one blond young man, and, before anyone could speak, Chris launched himself into the surprised man's arms. The man, the Source- _Wyatt_- instinctively wrapped his arms around the teenager.

"_Grandpa_," Chris's voice could be heard, muffled against the young man's chest, and understanding instantly flooded Wyatt's face.

They vanished in a whirlwind of flames.

**A/N: Thank you guys so, so much for reading! **


	26. Of Grandpa

**Standard Disclaimer Applies.**

**Chapter 26: Of Grandpa**

"_**Grandpa**__," Chris's voice could be heard, muffled against the young man's chest, and understanding instantly flooded Wyatt's face. _

_They vanished in a whirlwind of flames._

"That was him- from the _Prophet_- Lord Wyatt!" Ginny gasped, looking amazed. "He can get through the wards!"

"Blimey," said Ron, dazed. "And Chris just called him right to us."

Harry's eyes, which were clouded over in thought, stared hard at the ground. This was, quite simply put, one of Dumbledore's best catastrophes. "Do you remember, in Dumbledore's office, the real reason he said he wanted Chris here?" he asked quietly.

Ginny's eyes widened, and Ron's mouth came open slightly.

"So that's it?" breathed Ron, looking chagrined. "We let him go back to _him_ just like that when we were supposed to, I dunno, _help_ him? Keep him with us and show him a good fam-…" he and Ginny shared a look. "…Oh, hell."

Harry understood their sudden sentiments. Dumbledore was afraid of Chris turning back to Wyatt. In an effort to prevent that, he had wanted Chris to stay with the Weasleys a while to learn that there was still good worth fighting for- good like a family like the Weasleys.

Chris had only been met with hostility since he had arrived… and now Chris was turning to the Source of all Evil for help.

"We've really done it this time," Harry sighed heavily.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris felt the familiar flames and then the split second sensation of falling into oblivion before they reappeared beyond the wards. He instantly tore himself from his brother's arms and flew to the godforsaken familiar hospital bed, not bothering to look at anything else first. All he saw was his grandpa's sunken, gray face-- the deep-set, half lidded dark eyes; the sharp, protruding cheekbones and sunken cheeks; the expression of nothingness that was creeping around the edges and closing in.

"_Grandpa_-" the word ripped from his throat in shock, in fear.

That's why he didn't know anything else was wrong until he felt a sudden searing sensation in his shoulder, the force of the impact sending him reeling to the floor. Distantly, he was aware that it felt like an energy ball-- demonic. Distantly, he heard Wyatt shout angrily, and he caught a blur of bright gold- which he also distantly knew meant Wyatt had vaporized at least three demons in one move.

But it didn't matter. Their little battle was meaningless; irrelevant. It just didn't matter. His grandpa, whose eyes were closing, _he was slipping- no!_, was all that mattered. _VictorBennett meant everything_.

Without a second thought to the throbbing, searing ache in his bloodied shoulder, he clambered to his feet and stumbled to the bedside.

"Grandpa- Grandpa, please don't," Chris murmured instantly, terrified by the way the man's eyes _just kept closing_. He had never felt more helpless to stop anything in his life. The eyes- those vibrant, penetrating eyes- they just kept slipping, and Chris was too far lost to even think straight. He couldn't help; he couldn't do anything, and _he just kept slipping_. "Grandpa, don't do this. I can't… I lied, Grandpa, _I lied_-" He knew he was sobbing, he knew he wasn't making sense. It didn't matter. Victor was leaving, _this was it_, and this was Chris' last chance. _How was he supposed to be prepared for this? _"I lied when I said I wanted to say goodbye, Grandpa. I lied; I can't do it. I can't say it. Please don't leave me. Please don't go; I _can't_…."

Chris was holding onto Victor's hand so hard, he might have been trying to keep the man's soul pressed down into his body; he might have been trying to keep it from slipping away.

…Victor's eyelids raised slowly, heavily, and the orbs moved painstakingly over to Chris. The look within those eyes struck Chris like a bolt to the chest: the sparkle of life in his grandpa's eyes- the sparkle was gone. Completely gone. Chris closed his eyes, refusing to let the struck sensation overwhelm him. But the realization did. His grandfather was really going to die.

Chris felt the hot tears seep from beneath his lashes and burn his cheeks. _How could this happen? When did everything become so fucked up?_ It wasn't right; it wasn't fair; _how had it even come to this?_

"Please don't leave me, Grandpa," he whispered brokenly, the tears falling freely. "_You're all I have_."

The cracked, broken lips parted slightly, and Chris practically threw himself onto his grandfather, he was leaning so close to listen. At first, all that came out was a hoarse rasping noise, almost like a dementor's ghastly breathing. Then the noise began to form two barely audible words.

"…I'm… sorry…"

"Then don't go," Chris whispered, feeling his heart stop beating. It was so simple in his mind; why couldn't his grandfather understand? "Just _don't go_…."

Victor's eyes closed the final centimeter, and Chris knew it was for the very last time. Those eyes were too weary to ever open again. Chris squeezed his own eyes shut and cursed the boiling streaks of tears that just kept falling.

"I… love… you."

And it was over.

Chris, barely able to even breathe through the imploding and heart shattering silent grief, let his head fall forward to rest on his grandpa's unmoving chest. His tears stained the unforgiving hospital gown as the heart rate monitor blared shrilly.

Hours seemed to pass, but no nurses entered the room to interrupt or unplug the shrieking monitor. It felt like an eternity before Chris wearily sat up, again. Without a word, he stared at Victor's body and waited silently as his brother approached him.

In the same silence, Wyatt unhooked the heart monitor and stood beside Chris, also staring sorrowfully at the corpse of their grandfather.

The silence stretched. At length, Chris whispered hoarsely, not moving his bloodshot gaze, "Are you going to take me to the dungeons, now?"

Chris felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder and flinched tensely. Wyatt's voice was quiet- almost gentle- as he replied, "I think you've been through enough. …Grandpa's death warrants a truce, don't you think?"

Hesitantly, Chris moved glossy eyes up to his brother, weakly searching out any signs of deception. But it was too much. He couldn't handle hating his brother- not _now_.

Unable to hold up his guard with suspicion, Chris squeezed his eyes shut and let himself fall back on Wyatt's chest, and Wyatt once again pulled him into an embrace. Without opening his eyes, Chris mumbled brokenly, "I'm tired, Wyatt…. I'm always… _so tired_…."

"I know, Chris," Wyatt whispered, softly, pulling Chris tighter. "I know…."

And before Chris knew what was happening, Wyatt's hand that was over Chris' shoulder suddenly began to feel warm… and before Chris knew what he was doing, his eyelids were drooping and a peaceful blackness enveloped him entirely.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry sat awake on his bed while Ron snored softly from his. Chris' conjured bed remained empty, still completely unused. The only time Chris came into this room- which was the second smallest in the entire house- was to retrieve new clothes from his trunk, which had been summoned as soon as he realized he would be staying a while.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny had told the rest of the household what had happened almost immediately, but no one had known what to do.

"He called Wyatt?" Leo had asked, his expression strangely guarded. "And he came? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," said Harry firmly, wondering at the angel's expression. "I've seen Wyatt before, and it was definitely him."

Leo opened his mouth as though to say something else, but he eventually just shut it and turned away, his countenance still pensive.

"You've seen Lord Wyatt before?" repeated Bill, frowning. "As in, other than in the _Prophet_?"

That had led to his recounting of the mind invasion incident, and then there was more speculation about that, but in the end, the real problem of Chris' disappearance remained unsolved.

"I can sense him," James had offered quietly. "He's not mortally wounded… but that's about all I can tell."

Mrs. Weasley had informed Phineas' portrait of the sudden turn of events, and he had relayed the message to Dumbledore.

"The headmaster is moving the negotiations as fast as he can," Phineas returned in his usual lofty manner. "He and Lord Voldemort are using a medium and are both being quite firm on their own demands. There's been progress, but he estimates another two days before anything can be agreed upon entirely." He examined his fingernails and sniffed haughtily, "Looks like Christopher's spell wasn't so grand after all if Lord Wyatt could get past as easily."

Harry, Ron, Ginny, Fred, and George had all given the snotty little man a piece of their minds at that point, but the fact remained. There was nothing anyone could do.

That's why Harry was unable to sleep, his mind spinning and racing around possibilities: What could they do? What was Chris doing? _What was happening?_

So when a torrent of flames materialized out of thin air in front of Chris' bed, Harry bolted to his feet, his wand out and ready.

Harry immediately knew it wasn't Chris- the person was too tall and broad. As the pale moon shifted out from behind a cloud, milky light flooded the room and revealed blond hair- Wyatt. The man had his back turned to Harry, but Harry could see him lay something in Chris' bed and hesitate by it.

"What are you doing?" Harry blurted before he could stop and think about it.

Wyatt barely glanced over his shoulder to see who it was. He gave a wry smile before turning back to the bed. "Hey, Harry. …And don't question me."

Harry, all too aware that this man was Voldemort's superior and therefore very powerful and evil, moved cautiously up beside him and glanced down at the bed.

Chris was asleep, his expression at complete peace for the first time Harry had ever seen. Without a word Wyatt waved two fingers and the blankets soared gently onto the sleeping teen. They watched silently as Chris automatically rolled onto his side, pulling the blankets more comfortably around him.

Harry couldn't help but make a face and glance at the dark lord. "Er… I know you said not to ask questions, but why are we watching Chris sleep?"

The Source threw him a sidelong look, and Harry couldn't decipher the expression. "Because it's a rare sight and I want mental documentation of it."

"…Oh."

Wyatt rolled his eyes, then sighed. Mutely, he stepped around to Chris' trunk and flipped the top open. Harry peered around as well and had to frown. It was completely empty.

"Lame, Chris," Wyatt muttered, flicking his eyes in a roll again. He waved a hand and muttered deliberately, "_Reveal_."

Instantly, the emptiness glowed golden and it seemed to expand before their very eyes into something like a walk-in closet. Rows and shelves appeared, all laden with objects- most of which were clothes, daggers, books, potions, and potion ingredients. Wyatt didn't seem at all surprised, but Harry's mouth dropped open. _How had he not noticed that before?_

Wyatt held out his hand and commanded in the same forceful tone, "_Alcohol_." Immediately, a dozen bottles of various drinks flew at him and Harry. Wyatt stopped them in midair an inch from his face and then smashed them angrily into the ground, causing Harry to jump back in surprise as glass and liquid splattered in all directions.

"_What the blazes_-" he began in shock, but Wyatt had already continued with, "_Drugs._"

Several small bags of questionable substances now soared to the two young men. Wyatt scowled, obviously identifying them, and flicked his fingers. They combusted into nothing.

Harry was truly baffled now. "What- _the- bloody- hell- _was that about?"

Wyatt sent him a narrow look at yet another question. "Harry, you had better consider yourself lucky you're on Voldemort's side rather than mine right now, or else we would be having some problems."

Harry blinked. "I'm not on Voldemort's side…"

"I _meant_, Voldemort's side of the magical spectrum… thingy," Wyatt 'clarified'. He seemed to realize the confusion still present, so he continued, "We just have boundaries with each other's worlds, okay? I don't mess with his war, he doesn't mess with mine unless I tell him to. …We were having some issues about drawing lines… so you're on his side after that nice little conference."

Harry was still confused, but managed to just shake it off. He had gotten the general point that Wyatt wasn't going to kill him, and that was all he needed. "Why did you just destroy that stuff? Why did Chris even _have_ it?"

Wyatt opened his mouth as though to snap at Harry again, but he ended up just giving Harry an appraising look. "Would you consider Chris a friend?" he asked after a moment. When Harry nodded, he looked thoughtful. After another moment, he said quietly, "Did you know Chris has been a drug addict, and may possibly still be?"

Harry felt his jaw begin to drop again, but quickly stopped himself. He shook his head. "I don't think he is anymore. He doesn't act like he's drunk or… on drugs," Harry stated, searching his mind to find any proof otherwise. He couldn't really think of anything… except the occasional scent of smoke. But that clung to clothes for weeks, didn't it? Harry shifted his weight to his other leg, uncertain.

Wyatt actually smiled slightly. "Well, that's good. But he's tried quitting before, and relapse is always just a hair's breadth away, ya know? And when he relapses, it's… _hard_. I don't know how many times he's overdosed, intentionally or not. I just… I want to… to eliminate the possibility, so he doesn't even have to choose." And now his concern was utterly transparent as he looked down upon the Halliwell, his soft, compassionate expression betrayed by the moonlight.

Harry blinked, stunned. Overdosed? _For the love of God_, _how many times had Chris tried to kill himself? _Harry wondered, numb. How bad could his life have possibly _been_?

As those thoughts rolled and twisted in his consciousness, Harry could only recognize one prominent thought:

"Why do you _care_ so much?" he managed to force out weakly, truly questioning how someone as evil as this young man could have such concern for the usually cold Halliwell. It was the most unlikely scenario he could imagine with these two people. Wasn't Lord Wyatt supposed to be mad at Chris for leaving him? Wasn't Wyatt really _hunting _Chris? Why was he suddenly so interested in Chris' well-being?

Wyatt glanced up briefly, his eyes slightly confused. "Why wouldn't I?" he muttered, returning his gaze to the slumbering teen. He continued softly, almost to himself, "Just because he disagrees with my views doesn't change the fact that he's still my brother. …We're all we have left, now…."

…Harry was pretty sure the floor vanished from beneath his feet. _"WHAT?"_

Now Wyatt's head shot up. "Do you mind?" he hissed angrily, brandishing a hand out over Chris. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to get him to sleep?" There was a pause, and most of the anger vanished into a rather abashed expression. "Actually, it took forever for me to sneak up on him and use my power…. Man, he's going to be pissed when he wakes up…."

But Harry didn't care. "_You two are brothers_? _You _are a Halliwell?" he demanded, aghast and still feeling as though the floor had disappeared. He could only stammer as his mind flipped and sparked. "What- how- when did this-?"

Wyatt stared at him blankly. "You didn't know?" he asked in a voice just as blank as his expression.

Harry shook his head, still horror-struck. ".._How_ did this- when did he- _what_-…?"

Wyatt rolled his eyes and reached into the pocket of his khaki jacket. "…If you're done stuttering… give this to Chris when he wakes up," he said, handing Harry a long, wooden-beaded necklace. Harry accepted it mutely, staring at Wyatt with newfound awareness. Now that he looked, he did notice the oldest Halliwell greatly favored Leo… unfortunately. He shook himself when he realized Wyatt was speaking again. "Tell Chris that I'll be back in the morning to talk about the funeral and stuff so he doesn't freak out when I suddenly appear…Um… if Chris demands where all his stash went before I come back, just tell him I destroyed it. And, uh, when you finally manage to get out of here- this… house, just, ah, watch out for him, will you? Drugs and all that. I _really_ mean it when I say he crashes hard. And… um… yeah. I don't suppose you know how to make him eat, do you?"

Harry just could not stop himself from staring. Was this really happening? "What _are_ you, his mother? Of course I don't! He'd kill me for even suggesting it!" Harry was quickly getting the feeling that he was not, in fact, even awake. Had he fallen asleep, thinking about Chris' disappearance, and this was the dream his mind came up with? -He pinched himself hard, but it hurt. A lot. Oh, God, this was real. What was happening to the world?

Wyatt just threw him a deadpanned look. "You would be surprised how much I could say about that. …Anyway, I've got to go now. Some meeting with vampires in, like, two minutes. They're never happy when they have to wait past midnight…." With one last look at his _little brother_, Wyatt vanished in a wave of fire.

Harry stared. It wasn't long before his knees gave out and carried him to the nonexistent floor.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Hours passed. It was Christmas Eve, and Harry was in the kitchen, brooding over a steaming cup of tea, at five in the morning when Mr. Weasley arrived. The flustered man jumped at the sight of Harry sitting alone in the early hours of the morning, but Harry quickly assured him that he was just too awake to lie in bed until a decent time of morning. Mr. Weasley grinned in understanding, wished him well, and took off to see his wife.

Another hour passed in silent contemplation. Harry made another cup of tea after sipping his way slowly through the first. He was beginning to wonder when his father and Leo tended to wake, as he was certain Molly was the first Weasley ever to rise, and that was probably going to be delayed by the arrival of Mr. Weasley. …Harry quickly discontinued that line of thought. He hoped his father and Leo slept in. He didn't think he could handle a conversation with either at this moment….

Luckily, it was Molly that bustled in first, and only half an hour later.

"Harry, dear, what are you doing up this early?" she asked, concerned as she instantly began making breakfast for the house's occupants.

Harry, merely skipping the obvious answer of not being able to sleep, replied instead, "Chris is back. He's asleep."

Mrs. Weasley look up, surprised. "Well, that's wonderful. I was beginning to get worried," she replied more gently than Harry expected. "I don't think he's slept in days. How's his grandfather?"

Harry stirred his tea, eyes focused only on it. "He died," he said softly.

Mrs. Weasley was sincerely saddened by this news, but didn't say much. She cooked in silence. Within minutes, food began piling up enough to feed a small army, and Harry watched the incredible process with detached fascination. His mind was in the same place it had been since Wyatt left.

Surprisingly, the next person to enter the comfortably silent room was the alluded teenager himself.

Chris, his expression as closed and unreadable as Harry had ever seen it, stopped at the sight of people and made as though to turn back around and leave.

Six simple words from Mrs. Weasley stopped him dead. "I'm sorry about your grandfather, dear."

Chris' unclad feet scraped to a stop on the carpet in the hallway. He stared at something in front of him for a moment before turning to face her. His eyes, Harry was chilled to see, were practically dead. "…How did you…?" he asked quietly, not quite meeting her gentle, motherly gaze.

Mrs. Weasley looked to Harry, her answer obvious, and Harry, sensing the still-lingering question, responded bluntly, "Your _brother_ told me."

Chris stared at him flatly. He blinked, then sighed quietly. Not even looking at Harry, he asked emotionlessly, "Who else knows?"

"Just me. Why didn't you _say_ anything?" Harry inquired wearily, unable to conjure enough energy to be as ardent as usual. He hadn't slept at all, and he had a suspicion that his tea was decaffeinated. On top of that, he had just spent two solid hours thinking about it, and he wasn't as shocked, anymore. In a way, their relationship made sense. In other ways, though…

Chris just turned around again, his expression indecipherable. As he began to walk away, Harry sighed.

"Wait. Stop," Harry muttered. He stood and walked the distance between himself and Chris, who failed to look interested in anything else Harry had to say. Harry fished something out of his pocket as he continued, "He told me to give you this when you woke up. _And_ he'll be back in the morning to talk about funeral stuff… so that gives you a few hours to find a way to tell everyone why exactly _he's_ arranging your grandfather's funeral."

Chris blinked mutely and caught the object Harry had dropped in his hand. Chris blinked, and something- something _alive_- flickered within his dulled eyes. He blinked again. After a moment, his lips twisted at the corners, and that faded look in his eyes softened to something a little more human.

"Hmm," he spoke wordlessly, looking a little less like his world had just been Chernobyl-ed.

"Why's that so important?" asked Harry curiously. He had thought it a simple, mediocre piece of woodwork, but that didn't seem the case, now.

Chris held the center circle of wood in the beaded necklace, which was larger than the others and had a single rune carved into it. The twist at the corners of Chris' lips returned, and he replied softly, still looking at the rather crude necklace. "The few months I lived with him, my brother carved this into the headboard of my bed and spent days working out the incantation to go with it." He smiled slightly again, his eyes distant as he studied the gift. "…It keeps the nightmares away…. I can't believe he made a necklace out of it…."

"Your brother made that for you?" asked Mrs. Weasley fondly, coming up to the boys without restraint. "Which one was he, again, dear?"

Now Chris shot her a look that Harry found quite interesting. He didn't know if it was because of the 'dear' or because of the answer that followed.

"Wyatt," came the innocent response, and then to Harry, "I'm going back to bed."

He started to walk away yet again, when Harry shook himself from his surprise at the blunt admission. "Wait! What happens when he gets here and you're asleep?"

"Wyatt's definition of morning is eleven fifty-nine, Harry. I'll be up by then…" And with that, he was gone.

Harry blinked. Even though he now _knew_ Wyatt was Chris' brother, hearing Chris using the words, 'Wyatt' and 'my brother' interchangeably just made Harry's head spin.

That was when Mrs. Weasley found her tongue. She rounded on Harry, who instinctively took a step backwards. "_Wyatt_? What did he _mean_, _Wyatt_?"

…Harry knew he should tell the Weasleys what he had learned within the past few days; he knew he should tell them what Dumbledore had really wanted if they spent the holidays with Chris, but, at the moment, words escaped him. He could only sigh and tell her exactly what it meant.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

It was close to eleven in the morning when Chris could finally be found making his way into the kitchen. He was still wearing pajamas, which consisted of a huge black long-sleeved shirt and baggy gray flannel pants, which also caught everyone by surprise. To put it bluntly, he looked like the innocent little boy swamped in his daddy's favorite nightwear. It was a startling change from the black dress shirts, black pants, and black trench coat.

Without looking at anyone assembled (which was _everyone_), he moved to the coffee pot, poured more water in, and turned it back on. Still not looking at the people behind him, he crawled up onto the countertop beside the coffee pot and sat quietly with his legs crossed. Only after picking absentmindedly at the hem of his pants did he finally glance up- only to have to do a double take. He blinked in surprise to find everyone staring at him like a museum exhibit.

Silence. After another moment passed with no explanation from either side, Chris slipped down from the counter. Still looking rather lost at the whole situation, he moved out of the kitchen and into the parlor.

Harry sighed and followed a little ahead of the Weasleys, Elder, and Whitelighter.

"They know," Harry muttered to him, causing Chris to look up, his expression guarded. "About Wyatt. And I sort of hinted… strongly… about Leo, as well."

Pause. Chris stared. Then he stated bluntly, "Thanks, Harry."

Harry shrugged with a grimace. If Dumbledore had wanted Chris to know the real side of a loving family, that family had to know where Chris was coming from. How could they allow themselves to _care_ about the kid if they were constantly struggling to decide if the aforementioned kid was planning to kill them in their sleep? Harry had seen the logic at the time.

"So, let me get this straight," said Mrs. Weasley, pushing her way through the crowd of various family members. She stood in front of Chris, who had taken a seat on the floor and now had to look up at her, which made his eyes look extraordinarily wide. Mrs. Weasley whipped out a copy of the _Prophet_ which contained the picture of Lords Wyatt and Christopher. She waved it in front of Chris and demanded, "_This_ is your brother? Wyatt Halliwell, the twice-blessed son of Piper and Leo?"

Chris blinked, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he looked into the fireplace and gave a nod.

Nobody seemed very surprised at this news any longer, but Bill did clarify rather disbelievingly, "And your father wants to turn your custody over to your maniac brother? What the _hell_?"

Leo sighed exasperatedly. "I've been telling you why since Harry brought it up," he said wearily. "If Wyatt had custody, he and Christopher would be around each other more, and Christopher would have more of a chance to talk sense into him! It's the best plan anyone's had yet, I'm telling you."

"God, father, don't be so modest…" Chris drawled, still staring unseeingly at the fireplace.

Leo's face twitched with anger, and he snapped quietly, "What, you think moving between sides and backstabbing everyone is working so well, do you?"

Now Chris shot a look of pure venom at his father, and Harry jumped in surprise. It was the first time Chris had ever been openly angry with the man- and it was scary. "You know it's not that simple," he hissed, his eyes dangerous.

Leo arched an eyebrow, challenging. "What isn't simple? Choosing between saving your brother and killing him? Of course not…. I can really see how hard that choice would be for anyone…."

The cup of tea in Mr. Weasley's hand shattered, causing everyone to jump. Chris looked away quickly, his expression frighteningly closed.

"What?" asked Leo coldly, giving Chris a foul look. "Did I strike a nerve, Christopher?"

"Father, leave," said Chris quietly, staring straight at the fireplace. Everyone twisted around to face him, surprised. Chris stared straight ahead and continued in a soft but vehement voice, "You have no right to be here, and you have _no right _to talk to me right now. Just leave."

Leo's face screwed up in anger. "How _dare_ you? Just because I suggest you're being _traitorous_- which any idiot could see just by looking at the way you constantly switch between forces- stabbing your brother in the back or stabbing the Resistance in the back-"

Chris didn't even move when Leo was suddenly ripped from his feet and thrown straight through the wall leading into the kitchen.

Shocked silence met the collision and clatter of debris. Fred and George, who were nearest the wall, coughed heavily in the swirling dust.

Silence.

"Well," said James in bright tones. "Say what you will about your inconsistency in the war, at least you're consistent in your hatred of Elders."

Chris didn't smile.

There was silence. Eventually, Bill went to check on Leo and came back to report that the man was out cold.

"…So why _do_ you change sides?" Bill asked, squaring Chris a level look. "It sounds serious."

Finally, Chris titled his head to look up at Bill. Finally, there was an expression within his stormy eyes, but it was one that Harry couldn't identify. Without a particular tone in his voice, he asked, "What sides?"

When everyone stared at him blankly. He stared back. After a stretch of time, however, Chris sighed and looked away. "Never mind…"

"Chris, what do you mean, _what sides_?" asked Bill, looking sincerely concerned. "We're not going to lynch you for speaking your mind, you know."

Chris gave him that same unidentifiable look, then shook his head again. "It doesn't matter," he murmured, then stood up to leave.

"Chris, please don't…" Mrs. Weasley began, also looking worried by his behavior, but Chris had already vanished through the wall.

Eventually, Mrs. Weasley sighed and sank into the nearest sofa. "Has he actually talked to _anyone_?" she demanded wearily, holding her face in her hands. "This is awful! What _happened_ to the Halliwells?"

"Oh, you know, demons… death… destruction…. That sort of thing," said a new voice, and the Weasleys and Potters whirled around to find Wyatt Halliwell himself standing next to the demolished wall. The tall blond, who was holding a steaming cup of coffee with both hands, frowned and peered overtly at the wall. "Speaking of… what happened here?"

His blue eyes looked up expectantly as he raised the steaming mug to his mouth and sipped. When nobody moved to answer from their slack jawed positions, the Source sighed painstakingly. Grumbling something under his breath, he instead chose to ask, "Where's Chris?"

"Present," came a pseudo-chipper voice, and they looked over to find Chris leaning against the doorway beside Wyatt- who jumped in surprise.

Wyatt clutched his chest and exclaimed, "Jeez, Chris, it's too early for that! Give me a heart attack, why don't you?"

Chris rolled his eyes, then stopped. He checked his watched and looked at Wyatt in surprise. "Wow, it's eleven fifteen. This _is_ early for you."

Wyatt grinned widely, which caused the Weasleys to just about faint in shock. "I know, right? I've been working on it. Five minutes earlier every week…."

Chris just stared at him. Wyatt's eyes narrowed. "Hang on…" Wyatt said, his voice no longer as pleasant as it had been since he arrived. "There's something wrong with you…."

Chris rolled his eyes and said- rather acidic, "It couldn't be the fact that- gee, _I dunno_- the closest thing I ever had to a father just _died_, could it?"

Wyatt waved his hand as though brushing that fact aside. "No, no, something besides that."

And while Chris looked absolutely outraged that his statement had been brushed aside so easily, Wyatt's mouth fell open. He whirled around in a circle, seemingly looking for something, then turned wide eyes on his little brother. "_What is wrong with you_? There are no windows in this place!"

Chris blinked at him. "…And that's my fault how…?" he queried feebly.

Wyatt gave Chris such a deadpan look, Harry instantly realized where Chris had learned the skill from. "Alright, I get that you don't want to create a real window because it couldn't hold all these enchantments… but why on earth did you not just _say a freaking spell _to put an _illusion_ up?"

Chris blinked at him again. Wyatt spat out a quick spell and what looked like a window instantly appeared in the far wall. The scene outside was simple, but Harry, who knew Grimmauld Place was a nasty little neighborhood, knew it was false. The window showed a clear meadow with a few willow trees swaying in the distance. The grass was almost as tall as that of the un-kept patch that really was outside that wall.

The blond raised his eyebrows pointedly at the brunette, who seemed to shrink before their very eyes. Eventually Chris let his head fall into his hands. "I am such an idiot…" he said, his voice muffled through his hands. But even as he said it, he seemed to gravitate towards the window as though pulled by an invisible force.

Wyatt snorted. "Yeah. I'll say. I swear, Chris, you can be absolutely brilliant when you want… but you have, like, _negative_ common sense."

Harry, however, was frowning at the strange quality in Chris' voice. "Chris... are you… _crying_?"

"...I'm just… _so… happy_…" Chris mumbled, sounding very much like he was crying, but when he removed his hands to look out the window as he sat down next to it, he was actually smiling.

Wyatt rolled his eyes at the theatrics and said seriously, "Come on, Chris. We need to talk."

Chris looked up at him. "Why? You already know what I'd want... for the funeral arrangements…" he said softly.

Wyatt stared at him for a moment then sighed. "No demons, public obituary so old friends can find him, and a nice quiet ceremony?"

Chris, looking back out the window and pulling his knees up to his chest, nodded silently.

Wyatt sighed again. "And… you won't be going."

Chris shook his head mutely.

"…Because you never go."

Chris agreed with him again.

"You know, Grandpa would have wanted you to be there, Chris," Wyatt said quietly, watching Chris carefully.

"You know, Grandpa didn't want to die at all, Wyatt," Chris said bluntly. His eyes looked back up to Wyatt. "It's time for you to leave, too, Wyatt."

Now it was Wyatt that frowned. "Too? Who else got past these wards?"

Harry found himself unable to be surprised when Chris chuckled darkly.

"Oh, Father didn't leave through the wards, Wy."

**

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A/N: First of all, I would like to thank each and every person who reviewed. I couldn't believe how much support I'm getting for this story. It is absolutely INCREDIBLE. I never would have imagined I'd have such amazing readers, AND such touching reviews.

**I cannot express to you how much it means to me when a reviewer tells me I made them physically cry by something I wrote, or I actually made them laugh aloud. It's so amazing for me, and I just can't tell you enough how inspiring that is. I feel so honored by everything you write to me. It really is just incredible, and I will never get tired of reading those reviews. They make my world. You guys are the reason I would never stop writing this story- so the next time it takes two months to update, never fear. I WILL NOT surrender. I WILL finish this story. -And thank you for sticking with me this far. I know it's been a long journey.**

**So...**

**For the next chapter, I'm seeing more of Harry's reaction to Wyatt and Chris being brothers, and some interaction between Leo, Wyatt, and Chris. :) Thanks for reading, everyone!**

**AND - ATTENTION! - AND - AND - AND - ATTENTION! - AND -AND - AND - ATTENTION! - AND - AND - ATTENTION!**

**ANNOUNCEMENT!**

**Hey guys, I'm co-writing a story with Stoneage Woman- the first chapter is already posted. It's called Lonely Light of Morning, and it is a Charmed/Supernatural crossover. THE MAIN CHARACTERS ARE CHRIS AND SAM, so I haven't veered from writing our favorite character. -And it's main genre is angst, of course, because that's about all I do, right? I'd really love it if some of you guys went and checked it out, since it's become my second baby, right next to this story. :) Thanks again!**


	27. Of Christmas

**Standard Disclaimer.**

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Chapter 27: 

**Of Christmas**

_Harry was surprised when Chris chuckled darkly. "Oh, Father didn't leave through the wards, Wy."_

Wyatt cocked his head to the side, clearly confused. Chris glanced over his shoulder at the nicely demolished wall and looked back to his older brother, obviously handing him the explanation.

A light of comprehension lit within Wyatt's eyes, and his mouth formed a round, 'O.' There was a moment of silence, then Wyatt sighed. "So, how long did it take? One day? One _hour_?"

Chris shrugged noncommittally. Wyatt rolled his eyes and muttered, "Forget the rebel demons and everyone. You and Dad are the ones that are going to be the death of me…. Can't leave you two alone for five minutes without someone loosing a limb…."

Chris' jaw dropped at this apparently scandalous statement. "Hey! Not one of us has _ever_ lost a limb!"

This time Wyatt found the wall to his left very interesting as he muttered under his breath, "…Yet."

Chris glowered. "If you're quite done with your unappreciated remarks, Wyatt…" he said pointedly.

Wyatt's sky blue eyes went impossibly wide and innocent. "Are you going to throw me through a wall, too, Chris?" he asked with dramatic trepidation.

"You're a bastard," Chris scowled, crossing his arms and not budging.

And Wyatt broke out in a grin. "That may be true, but it means nothing," he said. "Can I come back tomorrow, then?" When Chris made as though to tell him where he could shove it, Wyatt's face fell. "But it's _Christmas_!" he cried, devastated. "I'd invite you over to the mansion if I knew you wouldn't freak- and do you know how much Monica has been asking about you? Jeez, I'd swear she were 'interested' in you if I didn't know how much all around better _I_ am." He winked.

Chris just stared. After several seconds of staring speechlessly at each other, Chris forced out weakly, "There's something _wrong_ with you. You do realize that, don't you?"

Wyatt rolled his eyes. "Chris, I think you are failing to comprehend how _bored_ I am. Boredom does strange things to a guy. You know that -_very well_, I might add…."

Chris scowled again. "Don't you even bring that up. I was going through a _complete_ mental breakdown and you know it."

"…And whose fault was that?" Wyatt looked around, utterly innocent. When Chris chose not to respond, Wyatt cocked his head to the side and asked curiously, "How's that going, anyway?"

And, amazingly, a slight smile tugged at the corners of Chris' mouth. "One year and three days, eight months and thirteen days… five months and two weeks… three months and twelve days… and… five weeks."

Wyatt's face lit up. "Five weeks? That's the last one! Well, besides hard alcohol, anyway…," he said. He cheered up again quickly. "So did you even notice-"

"Yes, I did," said Chris. "…And thank you."

Wyatt beamed. "Anytime."

"No, _not_ anytime. If you ever do it again, I'll have your head on a pike sitting outside my bedroom door," Chris said so seriously that Wyatt grimaced slightly.

The Twice-Blessed opened his mouth as though to continue this indecipherable conversation, but-

"ALRIGHT!" Ron bellowed, interrupting at long last. "_What the bloody hell are you two on about_?"

Chris and Wyatt both turned to find the entire house's occupants, minus Leo, staring at them with rather slack jawed expressions. The brothers blinked in unison, then turned their stares back to each other.

"Tomorrow?" Wyatt asked, no longer practically bouncing in cheerfulness. He looked perfectly honest, now. "Seriously, Monica wants to make sure you're alright, and what good is a truce if we can't even _talk_ to each other on _Christmas_?" He looked at his little brother imploringly.

Said little brother sighed, looking close to surrender. "Why does Monica _care_ so much? We hardly ever talked even when I was living at the mansion," he asked, strained.

Wyatt shrugged wryly. "I think she's appointed herself the role of 'over-concerned, entirely compassionate female' in your life."

Chris arched an eyebrow, still looking relatively confused about it. "Since _when_? Why _now_?"

Wyatt now grimaced fully. "Well… ever since you… yeah. That really upset her, you know."

Chris' face fell. "Oh. Right."

"…So tomorrow…?"

Chris looked up at him rather hopelessly. "You know what this is doing to my mentality, don't you?"

Wyatt beamed. "Alright, see you then!"

"Wait, wait, wait-" Chris said just as flames began to lick around Wyatt. The Twice-Blessed instantly stopped teleporting and looked at Chris expectantly. "_How the fuck _are you getting through the wards so easily?"

Wyatt stared at him rather blankly for a moment. Then, in a voice just as blank, he commented, "Christopher, I am the most powerful magical being in the world. With a little effort, there isn't a lot I can't do."

This time, The Most Powerful Magical Being in the World smirked slightly as he flamed out of the house.

Chris glared at the spot he had vanished from. He crossed his arms with an almost petulant expression and turned back to look out the makeshift window.

There was silence.

After a length, Bill stated quietly, "I thought Wyatt Halliwell was evil. What's going on, Chris?"

"Well, that is a mighty fine question, Bill," he returned rather mockingly, not bothering to even look at him. When Bill's unbiased gaze darkened, however, Chris seemed to sense it. He sighed and cast a brief glance at everyone before staring back out of the window. "Wyatt… doesn't think he's evil. He even denies the very _existence_ of Evil. Thinks it's all about power… which is the very platitude of Evil, so I don't know how he's actually fooling himself like he is… but he basically picks and chooses what principles he likes from both Good and Evil. Then he forces the rest of the world to believe what he believes, because he… _is_… the most powerful magical being in the world," Chris muttered, resting his chin on his knees, which were drawn up to his chest.

The company stared at him. He stared out the window.

"So, is he evil or not?" asked Ron.

"…I don't know, Ron," said Chris just as bluntly. There was a moment in which Chris let his head fall into his hands, and he mumbled through his fingers, "I really have no fucking _idea_. One second, he's this happy-go-lucky teenager madly in love with his beautiful fiancée, and the next second, he's cutting his five year old cousin's throat open in front of her screaming mother. I just- _don't_- _know_."

The Weasleys and Potters' faces contorted in horror at this blunt admission, and Harry asked weakly, "Do you have any idea… why? I mean, has he always been like…?"

Chris shook his head mutely and stared out the window.

"So, what are you going to do?" queried Bill, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Leo said something about a Resistance… and I remember Dumbledore saying something about our Order getting in contact with 'The Resistance' to organize something, once…. Are you a part of that? What _is_ it?"

Chris' lips quirked slightly. "The less you know, the better," he said dryly. "Especially if Wyatt is coming back tomorrow."

There was silence. After a few moments, Chris glanced up then turned his gaze over to the splintered wall, where Leo was beginning to stir into consciousness. His face, though professionally impassive, seemed to darken imperceptively. He turned back to the window with a sudden air of cold guardedness, and Harry knew they would get no more information out of him for the morning.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Lunch time drew everyone out of the parlor, save Chris, who no one had the heart to pry away from the window- especially with Leo's conscious, seething presence stalking around the place. Since he had woken up, Leo had furiously demanded Chris to explain himself and apologize. Chris had apologized without hesitation, but nobody really thought he was sincere, and he offered no explanation. Harry personally thought Chris' reasons had been obvious, but he chose to keep that opinion to himself.

"You know," said Harry, "it's very strange to think of you with a father."

It was almost midnight and the rest of the house's occupants were in the kitchen drinking eggnog. Harry sat in front of the fire with a mug of hot chocolate, alternatively staring pensively at the fire and Chris, who was now sitting cross-legged in front of the window instead of on the sill.

Chris' eyes shot up to meet Harry's instantly, wordlessly telling him if he had a point, make it fast.

"I mean, I see you both, but it's… weird. I dunno," Harry continued, choosing to ignore Chris' silent look of daggers. He had finally learned that Chris wouldn't _really_ hurt him as much as his looks implied. "And it's strange to think of you with a brother, too. Were you close, growing up?"

Chris' eyes narrowed and he looked back out the window, pointedly ignoring Harry. Harry was used to it. He'd expected it, anyway.

Harry continued rambling anyway, just to take his mind off other matters. It was close to impossible not to think of Sirius tonight. His thoughts insistently wandered back to the same night one year ago, when Sirius had been the jolliest Harry had ever seen him. The man had been so happy to finally have company for Christmas- Harry imagined it had been the first time in fourteen years.

Harry was glad Sirius had had it before he died.

"I wish I had a brother or sister. My cousin's a whale. We've never gotten along…" Harry continued absently.

"Well, you can have one of mine," Chris said, rolling his eyes. "Then you could become a Halliwell and have demons chase after you and kill you, and we could fight evil side by side and be just like the fucking Brady Bunch. God. Is your hot chocolate spiked or something?"

Harry chuckled softly. "I just… can't believe the big mystery was that Lord Wyatt is your brother. And you know how everyone said_I _was in over my head?"

"Harry, I'm going to throw a knife at your face. Seriously. Shut up."

"This is the fastest I've ever figured out a mystery, you know. It comes together at the very end of the year, usually."

Chris rolled his eyes and seemed to force himself to ignore Harry, now.

Harry smirked to himself, but finally let the silence stretch. He hadn't just been talking for the sake of hearing his voice. When he looked at Chris now, his mind couldn't help but wander to every loose end he, Ron, and Hermione had noticed during the year.

Did this explain everything? Chris knew Snape, Malfoy, and Voldemort from outside of school. Had he met them with Wyatt? Chris had said Snape was torturing him to get him to turn… so he hadn't been on Wyatt's side _then_, obviously. And Voldemort had killed Chris after giving him the Dark Mark. So he hadn't been on Wyatt's side then, either. And Malfoy? That part of the mystery was still open, though Harry knew the answer was still just sitting in the basement, waiting to be discovered.

Harry sighed, forced that option out of his mind, and continued pondering. So, if Chris wasn't on Wyatt's side now that Voldemort had a place in Wyatt's ranks, what was Chris doing? He disappeared every weekend like he was still active in the Wiccan world, but he was obviously against his own brother. So how did he fight Wyatt? If Chris had such a problem switching sides, who was the other side?

_The Resistance_. Leo and Bill had both mentioned it, so what was it? Just simply what the name implied, a resistance against Wyatt?

"_The less you know, the better,"_ Chris had said. So, now it was quite obvious that Chris was a part of this Resistance. What did they do on those weekends, then? Was Chris bringing Wyatt down through subtle, consistent strikes and Wyatt didn't know? Was Chris fighting Death Eaters and Voldemort himself, deliberately keeping Harry in the dark? Was _that_ why Chris never told them?

"I take that back," said Harry, looking at the youngest Halliwell closely. The aforementioned boy glanced up, hardly curious. "I haven't figured out everything, have I? There's more than just Wyatt being your brother. There's something else you don't want anyone to find out. Other things."

Chris smiled slightly, but it wasn't a happy smile. He didn't say anything.

Harry took a sip of his cocoa as Chris stared out the imaginary window, quietly clinging to his imaginary lifeline.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

When Harry went to bed, Chris was still downstairs by the window. How did habitual insomnia work? Harry wondered. Now that Chris had the necklace, he could sleep as often as he wanted, but with his caffeine addiction, would he still be forced to stay awake? A thought struck Harry so suddenly that he bolted upright in his bed. -_Would he give up coffee?_

Harry suppressed a shudder at the surreal idea. He decided to keep such serious thoughts for a night that wasn't Christmas Eve. After coming to this verdict, Harry slowly drifted to sleep.

"She can't be serious," Ron's voice broke through Harry's unconsciousness, pulling him into wakefulness.

Harry blearily looked up to find Ron hold up a giant golden chain with the words, "My Sweetheart," and looking appalled. He suppressed a shout of laughter and looked down at his own pile of presents at the foot of his bed.

…  
It was almost an hour later when the two boys stumbled down the stairs to breakfast in their new Weasley sweaters, both wearing huge grins in the seasonal spirit. They found the rest of the house's occupants already in the kitchen chatting and having breakfast.

Harry plopped himself down in front of a plate and commented as he speared a couple of pancakes, "Hey Chris, you know you've got presents on your bed?"

Chris glanced up from his book, his eyes wide and rather caught off guard. "Oh?" He blinked, his gaze falling briefly on his father with an indecipherable expression. Before Harry could even begin to decode it, Chris had returned to his book.

Harry shrugged it off and threw a playful scowl at his father as James attempted to discreetly pour syrup in his son's orange juice.

Several minutes passed in playful morning chat and banter, and then a torrent of flames whipped the air and deposited two figures.

Harry looked up in surprise to find Wyatt in an obtrusive yellow shirt with an unfamiliar girl wrapped in his arms. The girl, Harry noted, was quite beautiful. Her hair was a dark, midnight red that swung in curls down to the small of her back, and her large, innocent eyes were a silver gray. She was also holding a large, brightly wrapped package.

"Merry Christmas, Chris!" she exclaimed and pulled Chris into a loose embrace without a moment's hesitation. Chris, surprisingly, did not flinch away, but he didn't quite return the affection, either. She pulled away after a moment and handed him the present with a radiant smile. "You know, shopping for you is a lot easier than it sounds. And thank you for the movies- I can't believe you found _Godzilla vs. Mothra_!"

Chris smiled slightly and looked at his own present. A grin broke out across his face as he tore open a corner. "Double espresso Columbian roast? _Awesome_."

"I thought you'd like it," the girl said.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet Monica Roberts," said Wyatt as he pulled out the last empty chair at the table for the girl and conjured one for himself, "my beautiful fiancée."

While Monica continued to glow as she was introduced to everyone, Leo promptly spewed his tea out of his nose. "_You're engaged_?"

Wyatt blinked at him. "Hello, father. Nice to see you, how are you doing?" he asked in a strangely blank tone, with a strangely blank expression.

"Wyatt, you're eighteen! And how old is _she_? Not only is that _illegal_-"

Wyatt rolled his eyes. "That's why we're waiting to actually get married until she's eighteen, so it will be legal. And, for the record, father, you can't just disappear for two years and then show up thinking you're still in complete control of my life. That's not how it works."

"The only reason I disappeared is because Christopher vanquished me, Wyatt," Leo protested, ignoring how the entire room had gone silent. "You think I _wanted_ to spend a year in the wastelands? I've been trying to tell you for months, Wyatt…. What happened was completely out of my control…."

Wyatt stared at him, then turned his gaze to Chris. Chris looked up from his book with the usual unreadable expression- except Wyatt's jaw dropped as though he _could_ read it. "Wait- you were _serious_? Oh my God, I thought you were being sarcastic- for _two years_-" He broke off abruptly, looking absolutely stunned. Then, he asked, "How? He's an Elder; I haven't come across any spell or potion at all that could vanquish an Elder…."

Chris now rolled his eyes. "Wyatt, he's sitting right in front of you. God knows I didn't bring him back voluntarily. Therefore… the vanquish obviously did not work."

Wyatt seemed to consider this while the Weasleys, Potters, and Fleur stared at the brothers in amazement.

"You vanquished your own father?" Harry demanded, aghast.

Chris glanced up yet again, still somehow not involving himself in the kitchen's drama, though he was practically the center of attention. "Harry, you would have, too. And it's not like it matters now, anyway. He's very clearly… alive."

Leo threw his son a filthy look. "Christopher, I have been very forgiving since I know you were possessed, and those events were beyond your own control, but _if you keep this up_…."

Chris bookmarked his page and closed it. He walked out of the kitchen back into the parlor, where everyone knew he would sit near the window.

Monica swung around to Wyatt, looking both lost and hurt. "Wyatt! You never told me about this! What on earth would Chris try to kill you _father_?" She regarded him with sincere sparkling eyes, and Harry felt bad for the teenaged Source. No male survived a look like that.

The fiancé in question grimaced weakly. "Monica… I didn't know about it either," he said, seeming to shrivel slightly. "And, well, I guess he was possessed…. Or really pissed…. I don't know. I can't speak for him…."

Monica arched a disbelieving eyebrow but eventually let it slide.

Wyatt smiled and made as though to say something else, but he abruptly froze. His eyes narrowed. He demanded in a drastically darker tone, "Why are there Death Eaters here?"

Everyone stared, momentarily stunned by the startling change and simple question.

Before anyone could answer, his frown deepened and his eyes moved to the door to the parlor. "Chris…" he called with confused suspicion in every syllable. "Are you… _sitting_… on a Death Eater?"

There was a pause, probably stunned, and then, "Walk away, Wyatt. Just walk away."

Wyatt, however, did not just walk away. In fact, he stood and walked right out of the room towards Chris. Sharing looks, Harry, Ron, James, Leo, Molly, Bill, and Monica took off after him. Without a moment's pause, Wyatt had grabbed Chris by the left wrist and wrenched the boy to his feet, paying no heed to Chris' book that dropped to the floor, splaying loose old, yellowing pages in every direction.

"Wyatt-" Chris stammered, his features not just a little fearful and apprehensive as he tried to wrench his arm away from his much larger brother. "D-don't-"

Wyatt, however, ignored him. The Twice-Blessed shoved Chris' dark sleeve back, revealing the long white bandages that covered the suicide attempt scars and Dark Mark. Wyatt's face resembled a thunder cloud as he shoved those wrappings back, too, and revealed the blazing skull and snake to the world. His face darkened even more dangerously. No one dared move.

After several long, breathless moments, Wyatt asked stonily, "Is this all?"

Chris, his expression still tentative, tugged faintly at his arm, very clearly uncomfortable.

"I asked _is this all_!"

Chris visibly winced and responded, "Yes, Wyatt, this is all. Now, _let go of me_."

The blond complied, though he still was not pacified. "He thinks he's better than you, doesn't he?"

"He thinks he's better than everyone, Wyatt," mumbled Chris, pulling down his sleeve self-consciously.

Wyatt threw out his hands emphatically and several loose objects trembled, but he didn't seem to notice. He continued waving them vehemently as he articulated, "You are a _Halliwell_, Christopher! Not some shoddy snake wearing a freaking dress and waving a stick around like he's important! How _dare_ he put his mark on you- like you're his freaking _servant_! I mean, _the nerve_! -And I cannot _believe_ you didn't _tell_ me-"

"Wyatt, calm down," said Chris, and now his voice was sharp. "Powers. Emotions. Dangerous. And of _course_ Voldemort thinks he's better than me. He's an accomplished, experienced wizard who has done more extensive research and had more practice than I could ever dream. And what am I, besides a Halliwell? I'm a fucking _head case_. You didn't seriously think Voldemort wouldn't notice, did you?"

Wyatt deflated a little. He finally put his hands down at his sides, and everyone allowed themselves to breathe again. "You were a lot better at… _everything_," he said weakly, looking at Chris with sincerity, "when you actually listened. You were even more intimidating."

Chris threw Wyatt a skeptical once-over. "Yeah," he scoffed bitterly. "Scary Lord Christopher, has panic attacks three times a week and needs a 'bodyguard' to make sure he doesn't kill himself- _again._" Chris rolled his eyes and finished, his tone drenched to the bone in sarcasm, "_Real_ intimidating, Wyatt."

Wyatt pulled a face. "Well, when you say it like that…." He shook his head as though to clear it and muttered distractedly, "I'll go tell Voldemort to lift this ward so you can get rid of those Death Eaters and leave and stuff…. I don't really like the idea of spending Christmas with them below our feet…. I'll be back in a second…."

"You know," said Monica as Wyatt flamed out. She walked over to Chris and began helping him pick up the scattered pages of his old book. "I asked Wyatt and Tom if you could come stay with us for today…. You really should have seen Tom's reaction. It kind of scared me. But he scares me a lot, anyway… so…." She shrugged and handed the stack of pages to Chris.

Chris looked interested, as did everyone else. He asked almost hesitantly, "Do you- think I could-?"

Monica looked confused for a moment, then her eyes went round. "That's right. Wyatt said something about you and memories. You can…?" Chris nodded and she looked just as hesitant. "It won't hurt, will it?"

Chris smiled slightly. "Not at all. Right, Harry?" He glanced over his shoulder at his Occlumency student.

Harry snorted. "Before or after I break my face slamming into your mental walls?"

Chris threw in a dirty look. "Before."

"Nope, doesn't hurt a bit, Monica," Harry grinned.

Monica failed to look comforted. Chris assured her, "Harry was just kidding. RIGHT, HARRY?"

Harry's smile was fixed, but his eyes softened. "I was joking. It is a little confusing at first, but it doesn't hurt at all. I promise." He paused for a moment as she took in his words, and he noticed that she looked extremely nervous. She actually had been since she arrived. "You're not magical, are you?" he realized aloud.

She smiled faintly. "Not at all." There was a brief, uncomfortable pause as she obviously had something else to add. After a few seconds, she queried uncertainly, "That's what 'Muggle' means, doesn't it? Non-magical? That's what Tom calls me, sometimes. 'Pathetic, wretched Muggle.'"

Mrs. Weasley looked saddened as she replied, "It does mean non-magical, dear, but not all wizards and witches hate Muggles. That's actually what this war is about. A lot of us believe Muggles and magical people have the same rights to live and thrive…."

Monica smiled, but the brightness was forced this time. "Well, that makes me glad. As I think everyone knows, we, um, Muggles don't exactly last long against magic. And I'm, like, the luckiest Muggle in the world, right? To have two Halliwells protecting me from everything." Here she really did smile and look to Chris. "So, how do you see memories?"

Chris gently touched two fingers to the young woman's temple. "Think about the memory…" he instructed.

Almost immediately, he projected the memory in question into the center of the parlor.

_The room was huge, even more expansive than Hogwarts' Great Hall, and its ceiling was not charmed to look like the sky outside. It was made entirely of glass and silver arches. Beneath this enormous skyscraping ceiling was a long table, covered lavishly in food and dark green lace, and at this incredible table were three people. Lord Voldemort, Lord Wyatt, and Monica dined together, the two lords talking politely about their respective war goings-on. When their conversation lulled, Monica interjected evenly,  
"I think we should invite Chris over next week. I haven't seen him in months."  
The two lords stared at her. While Wyatt looked thoughtful, Voldemort's expression could have frozen Niagara Falls. The spectators instantly understood why he scared the girl.  
"You know Chris hates it here, don't you?" Wyatt asked, unenthused.  
Monica shrugged and pleaded, "Just for a little while…. Just for the sake of company…."  
Wyatt now looked even more thoughtful. Voldemort, however, declared in a cold hiss, "This is out of the question. He would use the situation to his advantage and the outcome would be disastrous for the war. One holiday is not going to jeopardize the entire Movement."  
"We _would_ have thousands of trained demons and Death Eaters on the premises," Wyatt pointed out.  
Voldemort looked at them so seriously, so dangerously, that Monica visibly cringed. He said in a tone of complete logic and conviction, "_That_ is _not_ enough."_

Chris and Harry both burst out laughing, and even the others cracked smiles. Harry vaguely recalled that most of the Weasleys had never seen Voldemort before, and the last time James had seen him had ended in his death.

Harry stopped laughing.

After a few more seconds, Wyatt reappeared looking quite pleased with himself. "The wards are down!" he announced, plopping himself down next to his fiancée and brother. He randomly waved a hand. When everyone stared at him, he explained, "The Death Eaters are now back with Voldemort. James and Dad, you can leave, too, if you want."

The whitelighter and Elder looked at each other.

"The other Elders don't have to know the wards are down, if you want to stay with Harry for the day," said Leo offhandedly.

James broke out in a grateful lopsided grin. "Thank you, man."

Leo nodded as if to say 'no problem,' but he looked over to Wyatt. "And I have matters to discuss with you, son, before I leave."

Wyatt raised a practiced brow. "Like what?"

"Like guardianship of Christopher."

**

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A/N: Again, I am astounded and amazed and incredibly, incredibly honored by my reviewers. You guys are the freaking greatest. : ) Thanks for reading and sticking with me.

**!!ANNOUNCEMENT!!**

**I'm co-writing a story with Stoneage Woman- whom we all need to give a round of applause for beta-reading this story (you're the freaking awesome-est!)- and it's a Supernatural/Charmed crossover. I'm having a blast writing it because it is ANGST and drama and CHRIS, and just plain fun. It's called "Lonely Light of Morning" and in the Charmed section. I'd love it if some of you wonderful readers would go check it out. It's my new baby. : ) Thanks again!**


	28. Of The List

**Disclaimer: Standard applies**

**Chapter 28: Of The List**

"_Like guardianship of Christopher."_

Both of Wyatt's eyebrows raised at that. "What?"

"I want to turn his guardianship over to you," Leo explained calmly. "I think it would benefit you both. You need something grounding in your life, and it would teach you more responsibility…" Here, his gaze traveled discreetly to Monica. "…And Christopher needs someone who can be around more often than I can; you know, keep an eye on him and stop him from doing… anything… _stupid_."

Chris sent him a bitter glare at the suggestiveness in that statement, but Wyatt's face lit up. "Really? I can have him?"

"Yeah," said Leo with a slight laugh at his golden child's enthusiasm. "I thought it would take more convincing than this."

"Um, hello?" interrupted Chris, waving a hand in mild astonishment at their rudeness. "What the fuck do you think I am, the family cat? God, I'm right here! Stop talking about me like I'm luggage or some shit!"

"Christopher!" Leo scolded. "Watch your language."

Chris stared at him, even more astonished. "Well, _damn_, Dad. Excuse my fucking language. I'm so fucking sorry my fucking language is below your goddamn expectations while you're giving me away to my fucking _psycho_ brother like a piece of _fucking_ furniture-!"

Wyatt rolled his eyes, brushing his little brother's protests aside. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Listen- this will be so great! You can come back and live at the mansion with us, and- oh, man- this would make me, like, your godfather! You could call me God for short and _everything_…"

Chris stared at him, then to his incredibly red and fuming father, then to Harry, who was watching the exchanges with as much astonishment as Chris. "Did I _miss_ something?" he asked Harry.

Harry just stared back at him, utterly confused, as well.

Chris turned back to Wyatt and said sternly, "Alright, look. You can just forget your insane delusions of grandeur-" Wyatt made as though to protest, but Chris cut him off. "No, Wyatt! I don't care if Father Dearest made you my 'guardian,' because he can tell you just as well as I can that I never did a damn thing he wanted, even when _he_ was my guardian. So no, I am not moving back to your mansion, and no, I am certainly not calling you 'God.' In short, I won't do a damn thing you tell me, and you'll get to feel the frustration Mother and Father did trying to deal with me. Do- you- understand? Guardianship- means- _nothing_."

Silence. Wyatt blinked. The Weasleys, Potters, and Fleur stared.

Chris stood and walked out of the room.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris sat on his bed staring at the gifts in front of him. Something from Dumbledore, still wrapped. Something from Joden, Andrea, and Duncan, still wrapped. Monica's coffee. Wyatt's necklace. Something from an anonymous party that somehow gave Chris cold chills looking at- probably Voldemort.

He sighed and pulled a corner off Dumbledore's then strategically undid the paper so that when he pulled it off, it remained in the shape of the box. The box was actually a box of mochaccino mix, and Chris had to smile. Dumbledore was determined that no person should be without some chocolate in their diet. What better way than to mix it with coffee?

The box from Joden, Andrea, and Duncan was wrapped in aluminum foil and was the size of a small bookcase, although Chris doubted it was actually such a thing. The three, four when Chris included himself, were too prankish to actually give him something he wanted. He cautiously removed the foil from this one and opened the large cardboard box. He peeked inside- and quickly dived off his bed for cover.

The escaped broomstick made a shrill shrieking sound, and Chris could only wonder _how_, before it rose out of the box and made a beeline for him behind his bed. Chris made a similar shrieking sound and threw out his hands in automatic defense. It careened in the opposite direction and rebounded off the wall straight at him. He ducked and it clattered against the wall behind him, giving him time to sprint towards the door- but it shot forward only inches above the floor and knocked his feet out from beneath him. He hit the ground in a surprised _thunk_ and _bang_, then quickly rolled onto his back. The broom was hovering dangerously close to his face as though staring him down, and he paled, staring back. The words _Nimbus Two Thousand And One _glinted off its handle in fancy gold letters and Chris tilted his head to the side from the floor, unable to help his curiosity. What did that mean?

When the broom made no more moves to attack him, he slowly, very slowly, began to sit up. It quivered in warning, so he laid back down. He wasn't taking any chances with broomsticks. He had learned that lesson the hard way. Slowly, even more slowly than he had started to sit up, he reached a hand into an inner pocket in his trench coat. The broomstick didn't seem to notice… then his fingers found the potion vial. Wasting no more time, he pulled it out and smashed it directly below the broomstick before it had a chance to react. It froze in place.

Chris sighed in relief, his whole body deflating. He really hated broomsticks.

After another second of silent relief-basking, Chris hauled himself to his feet and took out the last objects in the box. A pleasant little card with the three's signatures and personal notes and inside jokes, and a book on the most famous broomstick accidents- hilarious and dangerous accidents alike. He rolled his eyes and flipped to the last page, where they had penned in, "Number One: Chris- a certain incident involving demons, an ostrich, and hoop earrings."

Chris rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the slight laugh that escaped his lips. They were real friends, pranks and jokes aside. He knew they were getting a kick out of his presents to them, too.

He then eyed Voldemort's "present."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry looked up from the table as Chris came down the stairs. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Wyatt, Monica, Fred, and George were sitting around the table after the Christmas lunch, which Chris had missed.

"Chris, dear, what was that racket?" asked Mrs. Weasley as she bustled about, picking up the last of the plates. "We thought we heard a few crashes."

Chris glanced up, eternally surprised at being addressed as 'dear.' He chose not to answer, but asked instead, "Harry, Ron, what does _Nimbus Two Thousand and One _mean?"

Harry blinked while Ron answered, "It's a broomstick, the best model right after the _Firebolt_. Why?"

"Oh," said Chris. He took a seat next to Monica and continued, "There's one in our room if you want it."

Ron's eyes bulged, and he choked on his tea. He wasn't the only one. Ginny, Fred, and George all had minor heart attacks at the offhanded way Chris was giving away one of the most expensive brooms on the market.

"Seriously?" asked Ron, his throat cleared from Ginny beating him on the back.

Chris shrugged. "There's not much I can do with it." Pause. "Actually, you might want to give the potion a minute to wear off it. It's kind of frozen. -_Shut up_, Wyatt," he added when Wyatt burst into knowing laughter. Chris glowered.

"What… happened?" asked Harry, looking between the brothers in bewilderment.

Chris continued glowering and Wyatt said with an amused grin, "Broomsticks _really_ don't like Chris." He glanced at his brother and added mercifully, "But we'll leave it at that, shall we?"

Chris grumbled a thank you and pulled out a book about the top one hundred most famous broomstick accidents. Ron promptly got over his aneurism and bolted up the stairs to check out the broom.

"So you finally opened Christmas presents on Christmas, did you?" asked Wyatt, looking curious. "This is a first."

Chris shrugged.

"Voldemort wasn't very happy when I went back a few hours ago. Your little gift hadn't worn off."

Chris flipped the page in his book. "Trust me. We're even." When Wyatt cocked his head to the side, still curious, he explained bluntly, tonelessly, "A list. Bigger than the Book of Shadows. Every town. Every city. Every person. Every curse and potion and summoning and pictures and charts… and I can't get rid of it. I can't burn it or flame it out or vanish it or-"

"So you _are_ even," Wyatt cut across smoothly, and though he sounded musing, there was a hidden concern shifting uncomfortably beneath his turquoise eyes. He went on regardless, "He can't get rid of your Howler, either. He's tried every spell in the book, but everything just makes it louder and louder."

"You sent You-Know-Who a Howler?" demanded Fred and George in perfect unison, in perfect awe. "What's it say?"

When Chris just sat back in his chair, not looking up from his book, Wyatt supplied, "It sings Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Repeatedly. And follows him everywhere. He's furious." Pause. "I would be, too. I talked to him for two minutes and I was ready to kill someone. It's god-awful. I think Chris might have sung it himself."

Fred and George snickered appreciatively, but Harry and Ginny both frowned at Chris, who hadn't changed his blank expression at all. After a few more moments in which Fred, George, and Wyatt talked amiably, Chris returned his book to a trench coat pocket and walked out of the room.

Harry and Ginny shared a look, mostly concerned, and Harry got up and followed. He had to doge Ron, who came zooming down the stairs on the broom, sure to elicit an earful from Mrs. Weasley.

He guessed Chris had gone back to their room, since he wasn't sitting in the window, and made his way there.

The door was wide open, of course, and Harry could see Chris throwing books he had left around into his trunk. He was so focused on his task, he didn't even notice Harry hovering in the doorway. And that's when Harry saw The Gift. It was obvious, the Wizarding scrolls of parchment in the middle of the jungle of regular books. And the scrolls were so thick, so plentiful, their content had to be more than could fill _Hogwarts: A History_, a book whose size was no joking matter.

"What did you mean," Harry began, announcing his presence, "a list? Of what?"

Chris' eyes shot up, clearly startled to find Harry sneaking up on him. Then his eyes wandered to the scrolls. He stared at them, utterly blank, then resumed his packing. "Nothing, Harry," he mumbled.

Harry walked over and sat on his own bed, watching Chris pack. He hesitated, then asked, "It's a list of what you did when you were… when you were on Wyatt's side, isn't it? The cities and towns and people…"

"Harry, _stop_," Chris snapped, but his voice sounded strange, almost choked. He didn't turn to face Harry, but his hands faltered briefly in their packing.

Harry took that as answer enough. He glanced at the rolls again.

"_Stop_," Chris repeated as though he could tell where Harry was looking, and this time his voice was stronger.

Harry held up his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. It's just… that's a lot," he muttered, again wondering at the size.

"I realized that, thank you," Chris said coldly. He threw in his Herbology book with more force than strictly necessary and moved to the next book with the same agitated energy.

Harry grimaced, but he honestly couldn't help his interest. "How long were you on his side?"

"Long. Enough."

Harry glanced back at the scrolls. "Why did you change sides in the first place?"

Chris was silent. He stopped packing his books. After several seconds, Harry heard his soft answer.

"I only stayed with him because I had nowhere else to go. I never wanted power. I never wanted to kill. I just… I didn't have anyone else for a long time."

"…Who?"

Chris finally looked over at Harry, but briefly. He started putting books in his trunk again, this time gentler. "Paris, the girl with the black hair you keep seeing in my memories. She was my best friend. She helped me escape to the Resistance and didn't make me tell them who I was, or they probably would have killed me. She forgave me even when Wyatt took me back and forced me to help him… every time…." His hands hesitated once more, then continued putting the books away with resolve. "She died two months before Dumbledore… _kidnapped_ me." There was a pause, then Chris said directly, "You probably shouldn't tell Wyatt I'm working with the Resistance. I'm sure he knows, but it _is_ still a secret organization, and I'm not supposed to confirm or deny anything."

"That's where you go on weekends, then?"

Chris didn't say anything, but it was a given.

Harry couldn't help but stare. Then he noted blankly, "The Order won't let any kids join."

Chris shrugged. "Dumbledore asked me to try and set up diplomatic relations between your Order and the Resistance, but the Resistance doesn't exactly trust me much since Paris…." he didn't finish that train of thought. He explained bitterly, "Any witch with above average power is immediately placed under suspicion by the Resistance, since Wyatt always finds them first. They usually turn out to be spies or plants. I'm always the number one suspect when anything goes wrong."

"So… if they found out who you were, now, would they still kill you?" Harry asked quietly, watching Chris' back. He tried to imagine it. Wyatt, the black king versus Chris, the white king or black bishop, trying to pass off as a white knight and wanting nothing more than to be a gray pawn. It was interesting, and Harry felt his heart sink inexplicably at the metaphor.

Chris didn't answer for several long seconds. Then he said inexpressively, "I don't know."

There was a pause in his packing as the last remaining book was The List. Chris stared at it, though Harry couldn't see his expression.

"You said…" Harry began slowly, also studying The List from afar. "You said Wyatt forced you to help him, even after you joined the Resistance. How? I would rather have died," he ended quietly, in all seriousness.

Chris didn't move. "I would have, too."

"Then why _didn't_ you? Why did you help him?" asked Harry, unable to stop the accusing tone that flickered within his voice and eyes. He couldn't help it. Looking at the List, at how long and filled it was, he couldn't see a way Chris had been _forced_ into all of it. There had to have been a time he could have stood up and stopped it. He could have sacrificed himself than done so much evil. Harry would have. Even then, Harry knew in his heart that he would have died if it meant saving entire cities from horrors like those grisly hellhounds. There was just no way some of it wasn't Chris' fault alone. He could have done _something_ to make that List shorter.

Silence met Harry's accusing inquiries. Then, slowly, Chris reached towards The List. He picked it up and, without looking at Harry or answering him, he began flipping through the pages. Harry couldn't be positive, but he thought Chris' hands were shaking.

Chris stopped on a page and stared at it. He hesitated then turned and handed it to Harry, not quite meeting his eyes. He pointed to something in the middle of the page, not looking at either Harry or the Page, then pointed to something below it.

Harry, confused and still a little angry, glanced down. Right next to where Chris had pointed read, "_Summoning of hellhounds using Greco Ammone deKhans. Deaths of…_" and below were listed several hundred names, packed tightly onto five lines. Below that, where Chris' finger had moved to, read, "_Suicide, death by Ventum poison._"

Harry felt his stomach turn cold. Chris had summoned the hellhounds, then killed himself.

Chris handed him another page, and Harry felt his heart drop like a stone into his stomach. He didn't understand the horror committed, the spell was one he didn't recognize, but below that read, "_Suicide, death by methamphetamine overdose._"

Chris handed him another page. And then another. And another.

Harry dropped the papers and took a step back, overwhelmed. "What the hell-?" he demanded, no more than a whisper as he looked to Chris, who was collecting even more. Chris finally looked at him, and his usually stormy green eyes were empty.

"I told you," said Chris softly, "I never wanted to kill. I would rather have died. Wyatt just wouldn't let me." He bent down and picked up the pages Harry had dropped and added them back to The Gift, which he placed almost gently into the truck. "He started making deals to get me to do things. Instead of destroying two cities, I could help him with one and he would spare the other. Or I'd have to make a Dark potion unless I wanted him to kill the family of someone who had betrayed him. Sometimes I tried to stay out of it or call his bluff, but he would throw me in the dungeons and just make me watch him kill all the people, or he'd project the images of the cities he was razing to the ground. I couldn't block it out in a dungeon cell. I could close my eyes all I wanted, but there was nothing I could do about the screams."

He hesitated. He had been speaking with his back to Harry, but now he turned, almost as though forcing himself. Harry hated to admit it, but Chris looked vulnerable. Lost. And Harry didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to help him. He just didn't know.

"When I… when I helped, the method… it was always darker," Chris said unsteadily. He looked like he was admitting something he had never told anyone before, and he was scared. "I could do the Darker curses that Wyatt never could. Magic requires emotion, and I always… I just had more, so… Wyatt's more powerful, but I could manage curses he couldn't dream of performing. So when I helped," he gestured to The List, "I was condemning some people to an even worse death… worse afterlife… but I was saving some people from both, too. When I didn't help, everyone just died." He broke off and looked away.

Harry could barely think. He couldn't even breathe. After a moment, he asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

Chris turned away. He pushed the trunk closed and bent down to lock it. "Because I don't want you to judge me," he said softly. He moved to sit on his bed, which was directly across from Harry's, and met Harry's eyes again. He finished quietly, "I didn't know what else to do."

Harry continued meeting his gaze for a few more seconds before he had to look away. "So, what are you going to do now?"

Chris smiled faintly. "I'm going to go to my grandpa's apartment before Wyatt does. God knows he'll find something there to use against me."

"You know that's not what I meant."

"I don't _know_ what I'm going to do, Harry," snapped Chris, then he seemed to realize he was snapping. He took a deep breath and said, just a little coldly, "This isn't the Wicca version of Harry versus Voldemort. He's my brother."

"He's evil."

"He's not lost, yet," Chris retorted before he could take another breath. "I'm not just giving up on him."

"You're thinking of going back to him, aren't you?" asked Harry, reading something else behind Chris' words.

Chris didn't answer. His eyes moved to the floor, lost in thought. "I always saved more lives with our deals than I do with the Resistance. There's only so much the Resistance can learn in time to do anything."

"But you'd kill again!" said Harry, horrified and outraged. "How can you even _consider_ it?"

Chris gave Harry a fleeting glance before muttering, "I'm already a murderer, Harry. Why not do it for the greater good?"

Harry blinked, staring at his housemate. He had to look away before he exploded in absolute rage. "I cannot believe you," he ground out, barely keeping his temper in check. "He would never be stopped if you helped him at all! Sure, you'd save lives, but who would stand up to him and get him to stop killing, _period_? You're supposed to be a Gryffindor!"

"So what do you expect me to do?" demanded Chris. "Kill him? I couldn't even _stop_ him! If you haven't noticed, he's a hell of a lot more powerful than I am!"

"Voldemort's a bloody millennia more powerful than me, but you don't see me thinking about joining him, do you? This is ridiculous!"

"You're trying to _kill_ Voldemort, Harry! There are a _million_ _ways_ to kill someone, fucking trust me on that, but I'm trying to _save_ Wyatt. Tell me one spell, one potion that can do that, because _I don't know_! I've been researching and hunting in the worst places in the world to find something- _anything_- but I still don't know! I have no idea what to do, where to start, so don't you tell me it's fucking black and white, Good vs. Evil, Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort, because it's _not_! I'm not a savior; I couldn't care less if-" he stopped suddenly and looked away, lost in his own mind.

"If _what_, Chris?" asked Harry, his voice hard because he didn't know what else it should be.

"Nothing, Harry," said Chris, and Harry didn't if his voice was cold for the same reason.

Chris stood and flicked a wrist at his trunk. Flames burst around it, developing it, and then it vanished. He closed his eyes, seeming to concentrate on something. Harry could only watch and try to ignore the feeling he had been ripped around on a chain and then abandoned.

Chris opened his eyes, but didn't look at Harry. "Wyatt and Monica are leaving. Tell Mrs. Weasley thanks for putting up with me. I'll see you at school." And, without waiting for an answer, Chris vanished in the same encompassing flames.

Still staring at the place Chris had been, Harry felt all the energy seep out of him in a slow, sinking whoosh. He sank onto his bed again, unable to recall when he had stood up in the first place.

Chris had admitted to him why he was on Wyatt's side, why he had left Wyatt's side… and why he might return to it.

Harry closed his eyes, and realization slipped into him more slowly and vindictively than a lost spirit. The realization was: he understood. He didn't understand everything; he knew he would never understand everything, because he would never in a million years be in the same position as Chris had, but he understood one thing. Chris didn't know what to do.

And Harry didn't know what to do, either.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris stood in the middle of his grandfather's empty apartment and waited. The place was exactly the same. It hadn't changed in the ten years since Victor had finished unpacking the last moving box. The apartment was in San Francisco, where he had moved to be closer to his daughters, nephews, and nieces. The apartment was in the heart of Wyatt's New World. Victor had been protected by both brothers, a man beyond the war. He was the father of the Charmed Ones, and the best grandfather any of the kids could have asked for. He was untouchable.

Except, apparently, by cancer. Its touch had killed him.

Chris stood and stared. The door was unlocked, as always. Victor willingly let anyone in for a cup of coffee and a chat. The couch where Chris had slept for many, many years was still as wonderfully lumpy and squishy as any kid could dream, and the coffee stains were still visible from numerous… _numerous_ occasions and accidents. Chris had always thought they made the little apartment smell better. Otherwise, it smelled like his grandfather's obtrusive aftershave, which he and Chris had always squabbled over good-naturedly. Food was still in the fridge, even though Victor had been in the hospital for over a week, and the coffeemaker was still on from Chris' brief visits during the man's hospitalization. Unable to think of where else to start, Chris walked over and turned the coffeemaker off. He didn't think he could stand being there long enough to make a cup.

He took one last walk through the apartment, taking in the memories the best way he knew how: with numb thoughts and no expression.

Wyatt would come soon to see what he could find of Chris', knowing full and well that Chris jotted down notes on strategies and potions in many random books of Victor's. Chris had always come here most often, after all. His grandpa had been the closest thing he had to a father, especially when his biological father decided to take a part in his life. This tiny apartment had been his sanctuary.

With numb thoughts and no expression, Chris came back to the living room where he had begun. He moved to the coffee table and knelt down. His hands didn't shake as they took hold of the little drawer handle and pulled it open, revealing a pack of cigarettes, an ashtray, and a picture.

Chris took the picture first and stared at it. It was simple. Victor, Chris, and Wyatt were standing together at the fair. Eight year old Chris was looking behind Victor, his expression delightedly amazed at something, and ten year old Wyatt was distracted by something that cast a bright green light onto his face. Victor knelt beside them, his handsome face crinkled in laughter.

Chris pocketed the picture, pushing down his emotions one last time before he did the deed. He took the cigarettes and pulled one out. This thing… this little wrapping of paper and tobacco had killed his grandpa. This stupid… little… thing.

Chris ignited one of his fingertips and lit the Thing. He took a puff to start it, but blew out the inhalation quickly. He glanced up and soaked in the sight of his grandpa's apartment, _his_ sanctuary, one last time, then dropped the cigarette onto the carpet. Ash scattered on the carpet, some still ember red. Chris stared at it, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. He raised his arms.

The ash exploded into fire and roared upward. Chris opened his eyes, fixated them on the ceiling, and the torrent of flames obliged. The howling mass licked the ceiling, the floor of the apartment above, and began spreading outwards, eating the dry carpet like summer-stricken grass. Chris stood, letting the warmth wash over him. It couldn't hurt him any more than the sight of the apartment itself already had. It couldn't hurt him when his heart was already bleeding.

Chris closed his eyes as the fire moved towards him, then around him, filling him to the very soul in heat, a life like nothing else in the world. It could eat away everything thing else, the coffee-stained couch that held memories like fragrances, the very ground he stood on, but it couldn't touch him. The anger and hatred in the fire was his, as was the grieving coldness in his very bones. It was his, and they couldn't hurt him. Not in his crumbling sanctuary.

"It's just you and me now, Wyatt," Chris whispered as the flames and smoke whipped around him, turning everything its tongues lashed into ash. On some level, he knew his brother was listening, and Chris hoped he was paying attention. "You've got your empire, I've got a bad attitude." He turned on his heel and wrenched open the white-hot doorknob. As he strode out of the flaming apartment and down the hall, he muttered, "I hope your empire is fireproof, bitch."

He pulled the fire alarm and flamed out as the sirens began to wail.

* * *

**A/N: Hey everyone! I'm sorry this chapter is a little short, but after this, things are going to pick up fast, and I won't have a lot of good stopping places. Fun, right? I'm guessing maybe four chapters left, so this LONG, sometimes painful ride will come to an end soon. So, again, thank you for sticking with me as long as you have. It's meant the world. **


	29. Of the Kidnapping

**Disclaimer.**

**Chapter 29: Of the Kidnapping**

Christmas and New Year over, Harry paced around the common room, waiting for Hermione to return, while Ron read a note from Lavender. Harry hadn't told either what Chris had confessed on Christmas day, and he thought his brain was fairly close to exploding from obsessing over it for so long. That's what Harry did when there was something he didn't understand. He obsessed. Only this time, he hadn't been able to share his obsession with his best friends due to a lack of privacy and time. It had been torture, especially when Mrs. Weasley went off on a ramble about how fantastic it had been to meet the Halliwells ("And Wyatt and Monica were much too polite to be Dark! I don't believe the Prophet."). Harry had wanted so badly to tell her, "Well, you want to know what he did to his _own brother_?!" and spill the news to everyone then and there, but he had stopped himself. He had too much respect for Chris to go around spouting off his most haunting secrets in such a way.

That's what he had finally decided: he respected Chris. The Halliwell's position was impossible, a complete shade of gray in a war _over_ shades of gray. Wyatt wasn't fighting about black and white, good and evil. It was power, the concept, the color, between them both. Chris' tumultuous comment of "What sides?" made utter sense in retrospect. He couldn't hold _anything_ against Chris, as much as he just wanted to yell at him that murder was wrong. The kid was just trying to do what he thought was right, and who was to say killing a few to save the many was wrong?

Harry paused in his pacing. That was what he was obsessing over the most. Was it wrong to murder in order to _save_? He just didn't know. He couldn't decide. It was absolute agony. He was supposed to know what was right; he was supposed to be the Chosen One, vanquisher of Evil. He had already done so much. How _couldn't_ he know?

The portrait hole swung open and Hermione appeared. She froze at the sight of Ron, then attempted to brush it off with a chilly, "Oh, hello. Did you two have a good Christmas?"

"Yeah," said Ron at once, "pretty eventful. Chris-"

"I've got something for you, Harry," said Hermione, neither looking at Ron nor giving any sign that she had heard him. "Hang on…"

She rummaged in her pocket for a moment, then pulled out a scroll of parchment with Dumbledore's writing on it.

"Great," said Harry, unrolling it at once to discover his next lesson with Dumbledore was scheduled for the following night. "I've got loads to tell him- and you. Let's sit down…."

They both turned to look at Ron, who appeared mildly uncomfortable, judging by his rigid posture.

"I'd rather not, Harry," said Hermione frostily. "I've got a ton of new books to read from Chris-"

"Would you two just forget about yourselves for one minute and let me tell you what I found out from Chris?" Harry bellowed, unable to hold it in a moment longer.

They stared at him, temporarily stunned. They hadn't heard him yell like that since his dreadful mood swings from the previous year. It had been an almost instant change after Sirius' death.

"Of- of course, Harry," said Hermione, concerned. She took a seat next to Ron warily, and they regarded their friend with uncertainty.

Harry sighed, not thrilled about having to resort to shouting, but continued now that he had their attention, anyway. "Alright. Not long after we got to the headquarters, we were attacked by Death Eaters and…"

Together, he and Ron pieced together the beginning of their vacation, and Harry went on to confide in them Chris' circumstances as the feared Lord Christopher. Ron and Hermione listened intently, and their expressions turned more grim with every word he spoke.

When he finished, Ron remarked dazedly, "Blimey. And I thought Wyatt was just misunderstood. _Bastard_."

Hermione glanced over at him, disgusted. "_Wyatt_? What, you're on first name basis with the Source of all Evil, now?"

Ron shrugged. "You weren't there, were you? He was a charismatic teenager, Hermione. _Percy_ is older than him."

Hermione grimaced, unable to argue the point. She turned to Harry instead and asked grimly, "So, it sounded like he left in a rush. Do you think Dumbledore will make him come back after this? If Lord Wyatt is his legal guardian and he says he doesn't want Chris going to Hogwarts, there will be nothing Dumbledore can do."

Harry shrugged. "I don't think Wyatt knew that, so he'd have no reason to go to Dumbledore or the Minister or anyone and say he doesn't want his brother attending school. At least, I _hope_ he wouldn't know to do that." He hesitated, then finished, "Dumbledore would want Chris to come back. I know he would fight for him, even against Wyatt. He hasn't given up on him."

"Are you going to tell him everything during the lesson?" asked Hermione, her voice quiet as she studied Harry's face, waiting for an answer.

Harry hesitated again. "I think so," he muttered after a length, shifting his weight onto one foot. "I think he can help Chris better than we could- with the morals and stuff. I mean… I don't know which is the right thing, either. Save innocents or fight for a cause and die? I know I'd want to fight for a cause, but… if it came down to it, I don't know if I could just watch the innocents die knowing I could do something to save them…."

Hermione and Ron were silent, their expressions just as somber. The trio stared at each other for eternities.

…

"I was afraid it was something like that," murmured Dumbledore as he laced his fingers together atop his desk. His clear blue eyes did not twinkle. "Thank you for confiding this in me, Harry. I have already made arrangements to speak with him in the morning, if he is still an early riser with the necklace his brother gave him." He smiled forlornly.

"So he is returning tomorrow?" asked Harry, who hadn't seen Chris at all through the day's classes. It had severely scared him, Ron, and Hermione, who continuously wondered if he would be returning at all.

"He should be returning tonight, in a few minutes, as a matter of fact," said Dumbledore, a familiar blithe mannerism beginning to come back. "I contacted him earlier today to make sure he was alright, and he requested a few more hours to wrap things up."

"You already knew he was in the Resistance, didn't you?" asked Harry, somewhat bitter as he recalled what Chris had said. Dumbledore had wanted him to play diplomat with the Order.

Dumbledore smiled serenely. "I did. I, of course, still do not quite approve of it, but what can one do against such a Halliwell?"

"Damn right," said a voice, and Harry swung around to find a young man with long white hair, tied in the back, and a black eye patch appear in a whirl of flames. The stranger looked at his crisp business suit's shoulder, which was smoking from some strange green acidic goo. He pulled a face, took off the jacket, and it was inexplicably consumed in flames. He looked back up to Dumbledore and finished sardonically, "Happy I'm alive?"

"Immeasurably," agreed Dumbledore with a smile. When the stranger made as though to walk out the door, Dumbledore interrupted, "Aren't you forgetting something, Chris?"

The stranger- Chris?- turned back to him, clearly confused. Then comprehension dawned in his dark brown eye. He laughed, then disappeared for a moment in golden beads of light. He was replaced by the brown and white haired, green eyed Chris Halliwell, who looked amused. "That could have gotten interesting."

"Indeed," said Dumbledore. "Minerva might have Stunned you on sight."

Chris scoffed as he opened the door. "I'd like to see her try."

As he disappeared out the door, Dumbledore called in reminder, "Six o'clock."

"Six thirty!"

Dumbledore and Harry shared a glance. They chuckled.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Weeks passed. For the most part, Chris and Harry did not talk about such things as morality and the meaning of life. Occasionally, Harry had to ask about the war because Chris had made it habit to miss Mondays and sometimes Tuesdays to stay at the Resistance. Chris, of course, never really answered. When Harry directly asked if he had come across Wyatt again, Chris hesitantly shook his head. He didn't go into detail.

Harry knew the war was getting more involved because every time Chris went to Snape's class the first Tuesday or Wednesday after the weekend, Snape either ignored him completely, or laid into him with pointed, indecipherable questions. Things were obviously picking up heat, and Chris was obviously in the middle of it.

His suspicions were confirmed completely one Thursday morning at breakfast. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Chris sat in their usual cluster at the foot of the table. The trio was discussing the Prophet, and Chris was reading when Tonks appeared next to Harry.

"Wotcher, Harry," she said, announcing her presence quietly. Her hair was dull, and she was wearing Hogwarts robes, probably undercover. She looked over to Chris before they could ask what she was doing and asked, "You would be Chris Halliwell?"

"I would be," he replied, picking up his coffee and marking his page.

"You're from America," she commented, vaguely surprised.

Chris, however, spewed his coffee right back out and stared at her in utter astonishment. He choked, "No _shit_, is that what that huge land mass is called?"

Tonks barely cracked a smile, but Harry and Ron had to hide their snickers.

"Dumbledore wants to see you immediately," she continued, inadvertently silencing the boys' sniggers. "He says your friend is here and we can start the meeting at once."

Chris nodded, his face moving to impassive. He got up to follow, but Harry jumped up as well.

"What meeting?" he demanded, already feeling mutinous.

"I get to play diplomat," said Chris, feigning enthusiasm. "_Yay_…."

"You're not supposed to tell anyone anything," Tonks pointed out, but she didn't sound very convinced.

Chris rolled his eyes. "Would you rather me tell Harry that or have him tail us to the meeting and learn everything himself through dishonest means?"

"I would not-" Harry began to protest, but stopped at Chris' raised eyebrow. He felt his face burn and mumbled something about, "…just curious."

"Right," agreed Chris, distracted as Tonks began to lead the way out. He sighed heavily, muttering as he walked away, "These things never end well…."

He followed the woman out of the Great Hall and through the twisting corridors silently. The woman, who had yet to give her name, seemed weighed down, putting each foot in front of her with a conscious effort. She was depressed, and Chris felt his own heart sink empathically. He wished he didn't have to deal with her emotions on top of his own. This was going to be bad enough as it was. The Resistance was going to finally meet the Order of the Phoenix- the Resistance, who knew only "Chris", and the Order, who knew he was "Lord Christopher". He silently wondered if he should have given Joden, his friend they were meeting to be a co-representative, some kind of heads up. However, he was still clinging to the unlikely possibility that the Order members would not call him out on his past.

Very unlikely.

The two reached Dumbledore's office within two minutes, and the woman rapped politely on the door before pushing it open.

Dumbledore was behind his desk talking amiably to the man in front of it. Joden's auburn hair bounced buoyantly as he spoke with energetic hand motions, and Chris and the woman walked in just in time to hear him say, "-so Saralane screamed and conjured this huge Shadow Bat to turn the fire on us, but Chris-"

"_Please_ tell me you're not recounting our previous quests for alliances?" Chris groaned, preparing to walk back out the door. Joden's head shot up and his grin widened.

"Chris! Oh, no, he was just wondering if I knew why the vampire clans were reorganizing themselves back into the Old Court. So I told him that little part we played in it…."

Chris rolled his eyes. "Little part. Yeah. That's what you call a 'break down in peaceful communications.' You know, that whole declaration of war against us and all."

Joden's smile tilted a bit. "Not one of our smartest moments," he conceded sadly.

Chris scoffed. "Dude, crashing our jet into a mountain so we could jump out and fight demon wraiths three thousand feet in the air was smarter. That was downright _catastrophic_."

Joden snorted. "Well, Professor Dumbledore here has a right to know how many enemies we've established if we're going to talk alliances," he said reasonably. "So, shall we get moving?"

"Right away," said Dumbledore with a smile. "Chris, Mr. Nuwitt, Miss Tonks, if you would please." He stood and led the way to the fireplace. He turned to the two Resistance members and said calmly, "The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London." Dumbledore cast a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and motioned Joden, the Muggle, through. Joden smiled easily and walked into the flames.

…

Dumbledore led the way from the fireplace in the parlor to the kitchen, where the very familiar huge round table now seated a multitude of strange witches and wizards. They stopped chatting as soon as Dumbledore opened the door and led Chris and Joden inside. Tonks took a seat next to a shabbily dressed, prematurely graying man, completely ignoring his strained expression at the action.

Dumbledore smiled benignly at the mass of Order members. "You are almost all wondering what horrid occurrence has transpired to make me call an emergency meeting. I can safely assure you, it is a good sort of emergency." He ignored the disbelieving snort of a man with a wooden leg and whirling, unnatural eye, and continued pleasantly, "You all remember our discussions of American Resistance against the combined force of Lord Voldemort and Lord Wyatt?" There was a murmur of assent, and Dumbledore motioned Chris and Joden to the front. "I have contacted the organization, and they have agreed to participate in discussions for a possible alliance. These are their representatives, Joden Nuwitt and Chris Halliwell."

Joden gave Chris a sidelong look, and Chris tried to keep his expression calm. Joden's expression was utterly unreadable, blankly shocked. Was he going to explode? Was this it for their friendship?

Then the Muggle grinned and whispered, "I knew it," while the rest of the room's occupants exploded at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore held up a blackened, withered hand and silence fell. "I realize we know the name and face as Lord Christopher, but I can assure you, he is now a devoted member of the Resistance. We have nothing to fear from his presence," he said firmly.

"Agreed," said Joden. "Chris hasn't intentionally harmed the Resistance in any way since I've known him. He's definitely on our side." He winked at Chris, who couldn't help but smile in relief. In retrospect, Chris wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Joden had joined the Resistance well after Lord Christopher's pinnacle, so there was no personal history. It was only a name to Joden, and Joden was one of the most level-headed people Chris knew. He never would have exploded at the revelation.

"He's still a murderer!" snarled the man with the wooden leg and unnatural eye, snapping Chris back into the moment. "What, are we going to take Voldemort on our side as soon as the bastard has a change of heart? Albus, this is outrageous!"

As the room exploded in more furious agreement, Dumbledore held up his hand again. "Be that as it may," he cut across the angry hubbub, "his past is not ours to question or judge. We have invited Mr. Nuwitt and Mr. Halliwell here as honored guests to discuss our most pressing concerns. Our magical communities have not had such contact in decades, and we will not instigate hostilities with our sister world. _Now_," he moved past the delicate issue abruptly, resolutely, and continued, "if you two would please take seats and make yourselves comfortable."

Joden and Chris took the open seats. Then the meeting began.

"Let's begin with the facts," said Dumbledore, beginning to pace in front of the table. "How bad is the war in America?"

Chris and Joden glanced at each other. They looked back to Dumbledore and said in unison, "Bad."

Joden took over explaining. "We have thirteen safe houses, each with about ten thousand innocents- that includes magical and non-magical beings alike, but their locations were compromised this past September. We've altered the wards on them to make sure such attacks on them can't happen again, but the fact remains that the Source is killing more than we can save."

"He's got tabs on every type of magical beings," Chris picked up, and his gaze was fixed on a spot on the table rather than the people he was addressing. "Witches in particular aren't allowed any freedom. The powerful ones are found by Wyatt and forced onto his side, or they are burned at the stake by Wyatt's people or random witch-hunting groups. Other groups have been annihilated for refusing to serve him, like the trolls and giants, and some are being watched, forced under strict neutrality agreements. If the faeries or nymphs make one false move, Wyatt will take them out within a split second of it happening."

"The United States government fell months ago," said Joden. "Lord Wyatt took out the White House, the Pentagon, Congress, and every High Up in the system. Individual state departments crumbled as soon as demons started hitting them and they had no way to fight. The Resistance seems to be the only organization covering multiple states that is offering any support to the masses."

"And what kind of support does the Resistance offer?" asked the shabby man next to Tonks.

"We usually focus on rescue missions," responded Chris. "We have methods of finding out where the Source is striking next, and we move accordingly to try and either evacuate the people or fight Lord Wyatt's forces."

"What about that team?" pressed the man in the shabby robes. "FU1? The paper said they fought back."

Joden whirled on Chris, his jaw agape. "They know about us?" he demanded, horrified. "It was in the _paper_?"

Chris visibly winced. "Well, they didn't know _we_ were on it until you said that. But yeah… I forgot to mention that nice little article," he muttered. When the members of the Order stared at the two, still waiting for an answer, Chris sighed. He and Joden shared a resigned look and Chris explained. "Joden, two others, and I are on the team called FU1, known by most of Wyatt's forces as the Wolf Pack. If there's a high chance fighting will be the only option, we go. And there are a few good sabotage missions, but those aren't as common."

"I thought the paper said there were _five_ members…" said the same man.

Chris and Joden shared another look, but this one had a palpable intensity. After a moment, Chris looked away and Joden said softly, "We lost a member. That article must have been pretty old."

Silence weighed down upon the room. After a few respectful moments, the meeting continued.

"Is the Resistance short in anything?" asked Dumbledore. "Supplies, professionals of any sort?"

Joden answered, "Since the war has only been waging for about a year, and Lord Wyatt has to use the same sources as we do, we're still adequately stocked in food and water. It's hard to tell if we'll be able to access those sources much longer with the war going as bad as it has been recently, but we should be good for another year at least. We also have a good amount of witches and other magical folk to brew potions and remedies for the sicknesses and stuff, and we have plenty of doctors and nurses among our innocents that are willing to help out. What we would need the most is information. Especially with Voldemort's side. We don't have any contacts in his following, so when they go on those torture sprees, we have no idea when or where they'll strike."

"So far," said Chris, "we've relied on tips by our witches with the power of premonition. But those are few and far between."

"What are Lord Wyatt's motives?" asked a large man with a deep, baritone voice. "Why is he waging war openly?"

There was a single second of silence, then Chris answered quietly, "He wants power. He wants to combine the forces that once fought as Good versus Evil under his power and stop their fighting. He wants Utopia."

There was another beat of silence. The man said somberly, "I see."

And so the meeting transpired, the Order and Resistance members trading technical data to put them on a level playing field. Hours passed. After a short break for lunch, it continued well into the afternoon and ended only with the promise to meet again, after both sides had time to discuss the option of alliance privately.

"So, are you going to tell the Resistance who I am?" asked Chris as he and Joden stepped out of the fireplace into Dumbledore's office. The old wizard followed shortly. He took a seat behind his desk and waited patiently.

Joden looked at Chris, his expression unhappy. "Well, no. If Paris knew and didn't think the Resistance should know, then I guess we'll just have to trust her, won't we? And," he added, taking a seat in front of Dumbledore but glancing back at Chris, "what kind of alias for Christopher is _Chris_? Seriously, dude. It was so obvious in the first place."

Chris glared. "There are over forty different Chris-es in the Resistance and safe houses. Did you interrogate them all?"

Joden snorted. "How many of them are smack-dab in the center of the war and have kick-ass Wicca firepower?"

Chris rolled his eyes and sighed. "Five. Anyways, we need to get back to the Resistance. Albus?"

Dumbledore nodded, clearly used to being on first name basis with Chris. There was a moment of silence as Dumbledore let down the wards. Then he said gently, "You may go."

Chris took Joden's hand, cheerfully waved goodbye to the headmaster, and flamed out.

That was when it happened. Pain shot through Chris like a bullet of dry ice through the chest, and he felt his flames whoosh without direction in the immaterial world, wounded by the freezing adversary. He would have screamed, but he had no physical mouth to cry out with; his mind could only writhe wordlessly with the agony of it. His flames flickered- he felt himself slipping away, fading into nothing- _how was that possible? _And Joden. Joden was falling- somewhere. He was helpless, a Muggle in a magical plane of nowhere, and Chris could barely feel his presence in the limbo world. _He was losing him._

His consciousness still scrambling, disoriented, Chris gathered a force of will and threw it out in all directions. When it found Joden, Chris hardened the Will, using as much of his scattered energy as he could summon. He felt himself, his flames, flicker weakly at the effort, but he shoved that weakness aside. He had just enough strength left to hurtle Joden the rest of the way to the Resistance… and then he felt himself ripped away into the nothingness.

…

Joden felt himself rematerialize in the Resistance like reverse imploding. He staggered to the floor of the empty conference room, heaving the contents of his stomach onto the cold tile violently.

He had never liked the teleporting thing, but that- that had surpassed anything he had ever experienced of the magic world. It had been so cold that it burned, like being ripped apart by frozen carbon dioxide and having no idea where the body ended and the pain began. And Chris… Chris was nowhere in sight. He had given himself to the Stuff to save Joden.

With that thought echoing in his tattered mind, Joden wiped his mouth off and lurched to his feet. He had to find Andrea and Duncan. And then they were going to get Chris back.

…

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat in the common room that night. They had been intending to wait until Chris got back in order to bombard him with questions, but, as the hours ticked by, they became more restless. How long could a meeting last? They knew from their summer at Grimmauld Place that they didn't take much longer than a few hours; certainly not all day and night.

"Maybe he went back to the Resistance," said Harry numbly. He pushed his homework away completed and leaned heavily back into the armchair. Just as he did so, however, a voice spoke softly from behind him.

"Or maybe he tried and never made it."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione spun around to find a young man, maybe seventeen or eighteen, leaning casually against the portrait hole. His curly, dark hair hung loosely to his shoulders, and he pushed it out of his face with an easy grace. His piercing gray eyes sparkled in amusement at their surprise.

"Don't everyone speak at once," he drawled as everyone stared in shock.

That snapped them out of their dazes, and Harry shot to his feet. "Who are you? How did you get in here?"

The stranger rolled his eyes slightly. "That is none of your concern at the moment," he lilted haughtily. "What you need to be concerned about is the fact that Christopher, bless his little black heart, is missing. The Resistance is concerned, and, more to the point, _Wyatt_ is concerned."

"Why should we care that Wyatt's concerned?" demanded Harry coldly, not liking the emphasis the stranger had put on the name.

The stranger gave him a piercing once-over and replied coolly, "Why the hell should I care why you should care? You either do or you don't. The point is, Christopher is your friend, and he is missing. It would be in everyone's best interest to unite in order to search for him, would it not?"

Harry blinked. He, Ron, and Hermione turned to stare at each other.

"He says 'Christopher'," Hermione whispered, only for Harry and Ron to hear. "Remember what Chris said about the people that called him Christopher?"

Harry nodded and responded just as quietly, "Only people on Wyatt's side do. So we can't trust this guy."

The stranger made a scoffing sound, drawing their attention back to him. "Of course you can't trust me," he drawled, unimpressed. "No more than you can trust Christopher himself. I would not ask such a thing. I am merely proposing to take you to the Resistance where the brunt of the search effort is."

"You're… part of the Resistance?" asked Hermione, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Hardly," said the teenager with a condescending roll of his eyes. "Now, do you want to be part of the investigation or not?"

Harry's eyes narrowed to rival Hermione's. "If you're not part of the Resistance, then how did you know we were friends of Chris'?"

"I'm a psychic," drawled the stranger, clearly getting bored by the direction of the conversation. "Make your decision. I'm not going to ask again." He examined his fingernails, giving them the opportunity to decide amongst themselves.

The trio turned to stare at each other.

"I don't like him," said Ron, casting the stranger a dirty glance. "He's like a Malfoy… with brown hair."

"Yeah," said Harry. "But this could be the only chance we get to see the Resistance. And Dumbledore never would have even told us Chris was missing. He certainly wouldn't ask if we wanted to help look for him. Who else is going to give us this opportunity?"

"Harry, _what if he's lying_?" hissed Hermione shrilly. "We don't even know if Chris is really missing! This could be some trap by Voldemort or even Wyatt! How can we know?"

Harry and Hermione locked gazes. There was silence.

At length, Ron suggested, "We could always use Harry's Sneakoscope to find out if he's making it all up."

So, five minutes later, the stranger was eyeing Harry- Sneakoscope in hand- with an expression of disbelieving contempt.

"You're kidding, right?"

Harry scowled. "Just answer the question. Is Chris really missing?"

The stranger rolled his eyes and spat, "Yes."

The Sneakoscope lay still. Harry asked, "And would you really take us to the Resistance to look for him?"

"Yes."

The Sneakoscope lay still.

Harry chanced it and asked, "Who are you?"

Gray eyes pierced directly into Harry's green. The stranger said with a calm coldness, "I am Damien Halliwell, Mr. Potter. Now are you quite finished with your little game?"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn't have time to speak before they felt themselves blur at the edges and become sucked into oblivion.

* * *

**A/N: Hi guys! Is this a quick enough update? :) Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed!! You are the flash to my light. And please give another round of applause to Stoneage Woman, the coolest beta ever! **

**AHH, three chapters left!!**


	30. Of Chess

**Disclaimer****: Standard**

**Chapter 30: Of Chess**

Chris looked around the room, his breathing coming in short, painful drags. This wasn't real. He had been in agony only seconds before, and now… there was no way this could be real. The pain had completely vanished, not even a whispering of it lingering in his being. No pain could vanish that quickly in real life. This had to be a spell. The whole thing was so otherworldly, anyway, it couldn't be real.

He was in what appeared to be an old basement, refurbished to look like some gambling room straight out of the roaring twenties. In one corner was a bar with dozens of kinds of alcohol attached to the musty green wall behind it- but it was deserted. The little round tables with old fashioned wooden arm chairs were empty. The thick patterned carpet puffed dust under Chris' combat-boot clad feet. Everything stood, poorly preserved, under dim orange lights.

Just as his breaths began to quicken and match his accelerating heartbeat, a spotlight come from nowhere and spun dramatically to illuminate a short stage at the far end of the room. The stage might have once supported a jazz band or little ragtime group, but now there was only one table and two chairs. One of the chairs was already occupied.

Chris stood, unable to grasp what was going on. Directly beneath the spotlight sat Wyatt Halliwell, staring pensively at the table in front of him. On the little table was a chessboard.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry sucked in a huge gulp of air as everything came back into view. Beside him, Ron swayed, his face dangerously green. Hermione looked faint and blinked furiously, clearly attempting to analyze what had happened.

"We just… teleported…" she muttered, countenance still taut with the unsettling sensation all three were feeling.

Damien Halliwell rolled his eyes. "No shit, Sherlock. Is that why we're suddenly in an unfamiliar room on the continent of North America?"

"We're… what?" Harry demanded, forcing himself to straighten despite the sensation of having just been hit with a Jelly Legs jinx. "This is- is this the Resistance?"

Damien didn't even humor that observation with a response. He looked mildly irked at their ignorance and led the way to the door with swift strides. "Remove the sensation from your thoughts and follow me," he said. "This room is more easily accessible because it's empty and useless. You will be, too, if you stay here."

That caught their attention. The three rushed to follow, and Hermione asked, "Damien Halliwell? Chris never mentioned-"

"Of course Christopher wouldn't mention me," Damien drawled, leading them through a labyrinth of brightly light, twisting corridors. A few people, all adults, stared at them as they passed but didn't move to intercept them. "We don't claim each other. I wouldn't even be here if Wyatt wasn't so damned bothered about it."

"Wyatt doesn't know who would have taken Chris?" asked Harry. "I thought he was the only one who was, well, interested."

"If Wyatt knew, we wouldn't be looking, would we?" said Damien, his tolerance of their curiosity waning quickly. "I would be out there kicking some serious ass. Now, in here."

He swung a heavy steel door open and led the way inside. The room, Harry noted, seemed to have the perfect mixture of magic and technology. The room was long, and in the center of it was a table with a huge map of the world embedded neatly in the surface. The intangible landmarks and reference points that hung above the surface reminded Harry of the Muggle holograms, and he didn't know if the Resistance had that kind of technology, or if it was a magical illusion. On this table were various crystals, tokens, and strings, and Harry instantly recalled Professor Trelawney's demonstration of "scrying." That would explain the map.

Other tables, smaller and unobtrusively lining the walls, supported mountains of manila folders, loose papers, books, and laptops. A few of the computers were turned on and seemed to be tracking something through satellite imaging. One was opened to Pong.

Against the wall opposite the door was an enormous pane of glass the size of the entire wall, and it had been written all over in various colored markers. Indecipherable letters and numbers apparently separated the rest of the random pairs of words and photographs into categories, and it was the first thing Harry really focused his attention on- because there were three people surrounding it, talking urgently.

Those three people looked up upon their entrance, and the black-haired man who had been seated rose to his feet in a single graceful movement.

"Damien?" demanded a man with wavy auburn hair in disbelief and wariness. "What the hell do you want?"

All three of the strangers looked guarded. It was obvious Damien was not a well liked person among this group, and Harry couldn't help but wonder why.

Damien rolled his eyes. "Relax. I'm not responsible for Christopher's disappearance, nor am I going to kill anyone present. I thought you might like some… assistance."

The auburn haired man narrowed his eyes. "Are you… offering to help? Seriously?" At Damien's unimpressed expression, his jaw dropped. "You are! Oh my God, is Chris dead or something?"

"Joden!" shrieked the only female of the three. "Don't even joke about that!"

The man, Joden, had the decency to look abashed. "Right. Sorry." He shook it off and regarded Harry, Ron, and Hermione, curious. "Who are you guys?"

"Er, I'm Harry, that's Ron, and that's Hermione," said Harry abruptly. "We're friends of Chris' from school."

"Oh, that's nifty," mused the female. "I wondered if he was making friends or enemies. It's always a bit of a tossup." Pause. "Oh, right. Sorry. I'm Andrea, that's Joden, and that's Duncan."

Joden snorted. "God, we're rude."

Duncan, the tall, dark, and handsome man, drawled, "Niceties are overrated, Nuwitt. We are wasting time."

Joden opened his mouth as though to make a classy retort but stopped short. He turned to Damien, absolutely befuddled. "How did you get in here? _Again_? Chris and Andrea changed the wards around specifically to guard against you."

Damien rolled his eyes. "Then they both have a lot to learn about magic. The vampire's right, though. We're wasting time." He strode to the end of the table where they were and glanced down at the documents spread out. Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed. "What do you have so far?"

Joden, Andrea, and Duncan exchanged looks. "Not much," Joden sighed. "All we have to go on is the fact that it happened during the teleportation, and it was so cold it burned. We can't trace him through scrying, GPS, or anything."

"Who do you think did it?" asked Hermione. "Damien assures us it wasn't Lord Wyatt."

"That's just it," said Andrea. "Chris has a thousand more enemies than we do, and he never tells us who's after him or why. It could be anyone from Voldemort to the Elders to some lowly scavenger demon."

"If it were a lowly demon, Chris would have escaped by now," said Damien dismissively as he took Joden's seat and stretched his feet onto the table. He leaned back leisurely. "The Elders don't have any powers that could be so cold it would burn, and Voldemort actually sounds like a good possibility. Those two hate each other's guts. I just don't know if Voldemort would be able to lie to Wyatt's face when Wyatt inevitably confronts him."

"So, assuming it was Voldemort," said Joden slowly, "where would he take Chris? And how would we get him back?"

Damien shrugged nonchalantly. "That's why I brought them." He nodded towards Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who stood frozen in the doorway.

Joden, Andrea, and Duncan turned to look at the Hogwarts students. Their expressions were expectant.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared glances.

"Oh, hell."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris stared at the table and chessboard for only a moment. Without conscious thought or effort, he moved across the room, past the empty tables and bar, which all rustled and whispered as though they weren't quite as empty as he thought. He ascended the stairs onto the stage and walked cautiously to the table, aware of Wyatt's turquoise eyes on him the entire time.

He stood behind the chair opposite Wyatt, unwilling to commit to sitting down and talking long. The faint whisperings in the deserted club grew to a steady, misleadingly excitable thrum. Chris looked out at the audience warily, an unsettling sensation growing in the pit of his stomach. He could feel the people watching him, though he couldn't see or even _sense_ them. They _were not _there. But they were watching.

He turned back to Wyatt, whose gaze was somehow unfamiliar, and said, "You're not Wyatt."

Wyatt- or what looked like Wyatt- smiled and gave a half-shrug. "I'm Wyatt's subconscious. Just like you're Chris' subconscious."

Chris continued eyeing his brother. "So this is a spell? A curse?"

Wyatt just smiled that same unreadable smile.

Chris glanced down at the chessboard and felt his chest constrict. All his breath escaped him in a whoosh of realization. Through a suddenly parched throat, he whispered, "That's not a chessboard."

The smile remained as Wyatt remarked, "Of course not. That's the _real_ war."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"We do have spies in Voldemort's ranks," Hermione informed the room at large. "But locations such as headquarters and predominant bases are usually protected by wards and spells so our spies couldn't tell us even if they wanted."

"So, in other words," said Joden with an unexplainable brightness, "you don't know. How about your locator spells? Could you trace Chris instead of the actual place?"

"Not that I know of," said Hermione. "Most spells like that work through a charmed object Chris would have to be wearing. We didn't set up anything like that."

"What about the scrying?" asked Harry, looking from the Resistance people to Ron. "We learned about it in our Divinations class. If you've got a good enough connection, it should be above physical magic. Something about the Superior Third Eye or something…."

"I've tried scrying," said Andrea, indicating the discarded strings and tokens on the table. "But I don't know anything of Chris' that would give us a good enough connection. He doesn't put a lot of himself in material things."

While Ron and Hermione considered the objects, which included keys, pens, and other small random items, Harry drifted to the huge glass board. In a cluster of writing, papers, and photographs taped to one side was a picture of Lucius Malfoy. Harry leafed through the papers attached to the picture, undeniably interested. Three sheets were blueprints of his manor with notes written in shorthand on several hallways and rooms. A few more were informational pages on magical items, some with photographs attached. There were day-to-day schedules for each member of the household- Narcissa, Lucius, Draco, and Bitsy, apparently the new house elf. Harry browsed, a crease forming along his brow.

"How do you know the Malfoys?" Harry asked, drawing the attention back to himself.

There as a sharp intake of breath. "Dude, those are _so_ classified!" said Joden, looking astonished at Harry's blatant curiosity.

Harry had the good grace to blush. He shrugged rather meekly. "Well, he's kind of an enemy of ours. I just wanted to know…."

Joden snorted, then shared a look with his teammates. They seemed to say, 'What's the harm?' and Joden responded with a twinkle in his eye. "On one condition. You're in Chris' year, right?"

Harry frowned, suspicious. "Yeah. So?"

"I'll tell you about the Malfoy project if you tell me how old you are."

Harry gaped. He looked to Ron and Hermione, unsure of the significance of such a question. Ron shrugged as if to say, 'Go for it.'

"We're all sixteen," said Harry slowly.

The reaction was instantaneous. Joden shrieked and Andrea fell out of her chair. Even Duncan looked up in alarm.

"Are you serious?" demanded Joden, his expression one of the soundest disbelief. "He's an entire fucking decade younger than me? This is-" He cut off suddenly, as if words were no longer enough. He blinked mutely in amazement.

"He shouldn't even be out of high school," whispered Andrea with a quieter amazement. "I can't believe it."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione glanced at each other in confusion. "What?" asked Harry. "How old did you think he was?"

Joden, Andrea, and Duncan looked at each other. "Eh. Nineteen. Twenty," said Joden with pseudo nonchalance.

Damien scoffed. "Wyatt himself is only eighteen," he pointed out. "And we're wasting time. You, red, explain the Malfoy project and move on."

"Did you just call me Red?" asked Joden, fixing his disbelieving stare on Damien. When Damien fixed him with a flat stare of his own, Joden just sighed. "Alright. The Malfoy project was our mission to locate his family's Warr amulet. Since he does come from a very long line of magic, his ancestors worked some protective magic on it that's apparently died out. We thought it would be the perfect defense against Wyatt if we could figure out the magic and duplicate it."

"So what'd you do?" asked Harry. "How did you find it and get it?"

Joden smirked. "The Malfoys needed a chef since theirs quit or something, and Chris just so happens to be a wonderful cook."

Harry laughed, astounded as he realized where the story was going. "No way…"

Joden's smirk widened. "Yes way. He went undercover as their servant, got close enough to Lucius to get him to reveal the amulet, and snatched it and left. So far as I heard, Lucius was furious. I don't even want to know how Chris got so close to him in so little time."

He laughed as Ron gagged.

"Alright, fascinating story," said Damien, rolling his eyes. "Now shall we get back to the point? How are we going to find my dear little brother?"

"That still totally weirds me out," Andrea muttered, shaking her head. Joden had informed the team about Chris' last name, and although they were understanding, it had still been a bit mind-boggling for them.

Damien threw her an un-amused look. "Peachy. Now let's get over it. I've tried scrying for him, too, but my blood connection by itself wasn't enough, either. We have to think: What is important to Christopher that we can scry with?"

There was silence.

"A book?" suggested Hermione.

"No," said Damien, and he offered no further explanation.

"…Coffee?" tried Andrea.

"No."

"A strong sense of justice and equality for all mankind?" said Joden with a sneer at Damien.

Damien sneered back. "_Hell_ no."

Harry, still standing by the glass board and looking at it, felt his heart skip a beat as his eyes landed on another picture. He took it from the glass with fingers gentle enough to surprise even himself. "What about this?" he murmured.

When six pairs of eyes found the picture, silence contracted like a helium flash.

Harry studied Damien, waiting for his verdict. The Halliwell's eyes were completely unreadable as he stared at the picture, but he was certainly giving it serious thought.

And then he responded just as quietly as Harry had asked, "That works."

"Who is it?" asked Hermione, frowning.

"Paris," said Joden, his usual buoyant personality vanished. "That's Paris Whitmore."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Chris sat in the chair across from Wyatt, staring down at the chess pieces in that same quiet denial. This wasn't real. Wyatt wasn't real. The chess pieces weren't real. This wasn't happening.

"This is why the Resistance is losing, Chris," said Wyatt, watching Chris' eyes on the chessboard. "You're too afraid to move because you'll lose pawns and knights… and bishops, and rooks…. You don't want to win, because it would mean taking my king."

"How… are the Halliwells pawns?" Chris asked, not giving Wyatt any indication he had heard him though the words echoed mercilessly in every corner of his mind. "I thought we were supposed to be… more."

Wyatt smirked. "I told you this is the real war. How it really is. These are our choices and our options. Our pasts and our futures."

Chris said nothing. The pawns were just plain pawns on the surface, but, whenever the lights overhead flickered, he could see their faces. The pawns, both black and white, were the Halliwells. Sometimes he could see exactly who it was on each individual piece. Sometimes he just knew the look in their eyes. His pawns- Phoebe, Paige, Jessica, Cole, Henry, and who he suspected were Prue, Piper, and Leo. Those last three seemed to elude the light at all costs, but he could see their eyes. There were afraid but determined. They knew the game.

Wyatt's pawns seemed to struggle in the light, fighting something Chris couldn't see. They were the same people, he knew, but somehow different. Their air, the quivering aura around them, was weeping. Bleeding. Wyatt's pawns were broken.

"To start the game," said Wyatt, accurately reading Chris' expression of disbelieving dread, "Halliwells must fight Halliwells. The pawns move first."

"I won't do it," replied Chris, not looking at Wyatt's face. "I won't force them to fight each other. I'm not playing this game."

There was a dry chuckle. "This isn't the beginning of the game, Chris."

"It started with me," said a new voice, and a woman no older than thirty stood from a table in the audience. She walked onto the stage and knelt by Chris, her blue eyes beseeching Chris in a way he couldn't grasp. She gave the saddest smile Chris could have imagined for the occasion. "I'm Melinda Warren, Christopher. I made the first move when I died to protect my daughter," she said quietly. She looked at Chris' pieces, which were white. He had to start the game. She finished with a slow deliberateness, "My daughter's name was Prudence, you know."

Chris stared at her. It felt so surreal, but he understood what she was telling him. Prue had been the first Charmed One to die. He had to move her piece first. Melinda smiled, walked silently back to her table, and disappeared as she sat down.

Chris looked back to the board, steeling himself to ask what he must of his aunt, when he found Prue's piece already moved forward. He closed his eyes, feeling the reality sinking into him like his heart sinking into his stomach. He had never had to ask. Prue would never, in any reality, make him.

The hardest game of chess in Chris' life began. It wasn't hard by means of strategy and tact. For each move, someone from the audience would stand and give advice. The most difficult time came when Phoebe's daughter Primrose knelt at Chris' side and implored him to make Phoebe's pawn take the black pawn of Piper.

Chris shakily complied, placing more trust in his cousin than he had ever needed to before. "Aunt Phoebe," he whispered, the words slitting his throat on their way out. His eyes burned in acknowledgement of what he knew might happen, but he forced them out, regardless. _Trust Rosie_. "Take Mom."

He couldn't see Phoebe's face, but he could feel her anguish as she slid forward into Piper's square. And then Chris cried out in alarm.

The pawn that held flickers of Piper's face gave a small gasp of pain, then crumpled to the ground in the form of a tiny woman, no larger than the wooden pawn. She was covered in blood and didn't move.

Chris looked up to Wyatt, unable to be horrified since he had guessed what might happen, but pained, nonetheless.

Wyatt met his glance unyieldingly. "She's your win, Chris. Move her off the board."

Chris stared at him a moment longer before squeezing his eyes shut, unable to take it. He shook his head in absolute denial. "This isn't real," he breathed, his voice cracking pathetically. "I didn't… didn't…"

Wyatt's eyes remained fixed on his brother immovably. "This is your subconscious, Christopher," said he. His voice was firm, but seemed to plead for understanding as if he could force Chris to understand by speaking slowly and forcibly. "You are only speaking to yourself in this game that isn't a game. It is real, because it is you. Do you see what your more observant subconscious is trying to tell you? Do you understand it?"

Chris shook his head without opening his eyes. "I killed her…"

There was a second of silence, and then Wyatt sighed. "No," he said. He heaved another sigh and muttered, "I guess we'll have to keep playing. You're not getting it."

"What is there to _get_?" demanded Chris. He opened his eyes, feeling that they had to be bloodshot but not caring. "That this war is making me a murderer? That I killed our family by not joining you? What is there to _get_, damn it! I'm not playing any more! I don't care what happens; I won't do it! I won't do it again-" he cut himself off sharply without conscious thought. He looked away, into the audience that held an uncountable number of people. Were they all family? Were there friends? Were there enemies?

As if reading his thoughts, or maybe everyone heard his thoughts automatically since they were _in his head_, Voldemort stood from a far table and strode to Wyatt's side with a malicious sneer. He bent slightly and whispered something in Wyatt's ear too softly for Chris to hear. Then he straightened and walked away, throwing one last look of contempt at Chris before he disappeared.

Wyatt gave Chris a sympathetic glance and muttered, "To help jog your senses…"

He ordered his Henry forward to murder Chris' Paige. The wooden pawn of Paige fell into the figure of a tiny woman just as Piper had- and just as dead.

"Christopher, _think_," commanded Wyatt earnestly, pained. "_What am I telling you_?"

Chris could only stare. Henry would never kill Paige. Not for a war. Not for anything. They loved each other more than life itself. The sight of him doing it, even in pawn form, made Chris' skin crawl. He didn't understand.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"Who is Paris Whitmore?" asked Hermione, glancing at Harry and clearly wondering how he knew her.

The Resistance team shared uncomfortable glances. It was, surprisingly, Damien who answered.

"She was Christopher's best friend, ever since they were tiny. She was more family to him than I ever was," he said bluntly and wagged a finger towards the picture. It floated to him effortlessly. He caught it and moved to the giant map of the world.

When it became obvious that Damien wasn't going to continue, Joden said, "She died a few months before Chris started going to your school. I don't think he's let go of her, yet."

"Of course he hasn't," snapped Damien as he found a scrying crystal and attached the picture to it. "She was killed in fucking crossfire. There was no justice in it. No point. Why would he accept that?"

While the Resistance team stared at Damien in shock, unused to hearing anything remotely compassionate come out of his mouth, Hermione asked, "How did she die, if you don't mind me asking?"

Damien opened his mouth with a sardonic look, clearly about to tell her, "In the crossfire," but Joden shot him a look.

"We were in Minneapolis evacuating innocents before Lord Wyatt's demons got there," said Joden with merciful bluntness. "We were too slow. They put anti-teleporting wards all over the place. Chris, Duncan, and Andrea moved to the front to fight and give Paris and me enough time to finish evacuating with medical vans and trucks. The fighting got too far past them, and a demon crashed the truck Paris was driving. Flipped it fourteen times. Chris got there before any of us. She died in his arms."

"Oh, my God," breathed Hermione.

"He never said just how," murmured Harry, watching Damien scry distractedly. "I tried not to think about it."

Joden shrugged. "Like I said. He hasn't let go of her, yet. This war has cost him everything, from what I can tell."

Damien snorted. "And the Understatement of the Year Award goes to…"

Everyone shot Damien a look at that. He smirked, unconcerned.

There was a brief beat of silence before Damien set down the crystal and commented offhandedly, "This isn't working. Hand me that knife in that drawer behind you, Andrea."

Andrea blinked in surprise. "How did you know about…?" she began, but shook her head. She pulled open the drawer on the table behind her, retrieved a thin dagger from beneath several stacks of papers, and passed it to Damien.

Damien took the blade and, before anyone could object, sliced it across his palm. Crimson blossomed in its trail.

"Have you gone bloody mad?" exclaimed Ron, horrified at the apparent self mutilation.

Damien ignored him and smeared the blood onto the back of Paris' picture. He took up scrying again, explaining, "Paris' personal bond, my blood bond. Combined, it should make it more precise- not to mention powerful."

As if in response to his words, the crystal and string forcibly dragged his arm across the map and hit a spot in Europe. He leaned over to look at it, then frowned. "Get me a bigger map of Europe, focusing on the northern part."

Joden automatically pulled a rolled up one from a cubbyhole in the table and joined Damien. They spread it out and Damien scried again.

They went through three more maps, narrowing it down to the very street in a small, widely secluded village.

Damien glanced up, a gleam in his otherwise unreadable eyes. "Well, looks like we're about to find out if Voldemort's the only idiot Dark lord in Europe," he commented, and Joden chuckled appreciatively. Damien pushed the maps away and laid down the crystal and picture. He looked back over Harry, Ron, Hermione, Andrea, and Duncan and gave a predatory grin, showing his canines. "Let's do this."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for reviewing!! The support for this story still astounds me, and I know I'll never take it for granted. Thank you so much. I'll try and update sooner. :)**


	31. Of the Great Return

**Disclaimer: Standard.**

* * *

**Chapter 31: Of the Great Return**

Chris stared, his entire demeanor blank with defeat as another of his pieces was dragged off the board. He could refuse to play all he wanted; the war was still fought by the pawns and rooks and bishops, and they all eventually met their fates at Wyatt's merciless hand. The examples continued, Wyatt forcing people who loved each other to kill their partners, and the only explanation offered, "Think, Christopher. _Think_. What does this mean?"

And, after what felt like lifetimes- indeed, the lifetimes of his friends and families who were being killed in the game- all that remained were the kings and queens. Their faces were utterly obscured in shadow and wood. Chris continued staring, everything blank and broken. He couldn't do this. It wasn't right.

"I won't kill you," Chris whispered as he studied Wyatt's king and queen with lifeless detachment. "If that's what you're trying to tell me. In order to win, I have to take your king, which would kill you. I won't finish the game- the war. We can stand in a stalemate for the rest of our lives, or you can kill me. I won't do it."

Wyatt continued looking at Chris with an impassive gaze. Then he said, "That's not it."

Chris let his head bang into the table. His mind furiously commanded of him 'do not moan pathetically, do not moan pathetically, do not-'

He sat up suddenly, concepts in the back of his mind clicking and connecting like clockwork. "It's Voldemort."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"My dad would go raving if he knew where I was right now," said Ron, taking a peek out of the window of the jet and quickly returning his gaze forward. He swallowed hard. "Where are we, again?"

"In a jet," deadpanned Damien, not even looking back from the pilot's seat. He received Looks from everyone in the flying contraption. He didn't so much as flicker a change as he finished, "Flying over the edges of Glasgow. We're landing in ten minutes."

"What kind of demon or dark lord even knows where Glasgow _is_?" muttered Andrea, peering anxiously out of the window herself.

"It _is_ one of the largest cities in the United Kingdom," Hermione returned, and Harry could barely discern the faintest undertone of waspishness in her voice.

Andrea merely nodded, distracted by her own thoughts. Hermione returned to reading her book.

And, as promised, Damien began the descent only minutes later, just as the last lights of the city were out of view beyond the horizon. He stood first and slung open the hatch, leading the way out with such casualty he might have landed in his own back yard.

The Resistance team started out after him with similar familiarity. Only Harry, Ron, and Hermione had to exchange looks before following after.

Mist rose from the mossy hills and valleys in unnatural plumes, decorating the ground as like wreaths of twisting snakes. A chill spilled down Harry's spine. The group seemed to move closer together with any single act before continuing up the hill. Harry felt his clothes cling to him in the cold humidity and his breath came out as a rattle that reminded him eerily of a dementor. And when they reached the summit of the steaming hill, he suddenly knew exactly where he was.

Gravestones lurked amidst the fog, covering the entire valley below, and in the distance was a house.

"It's Voldemort."

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Wyatt's eyes shot up, honestly taken aback. "What?"

"It was Voldemort," repeated Chris, forgetting the game entirely as the pieces continued to click and lock together. "Voldemort has me somewhere- it's the _Courtesk De-Markflairt_- Curse of the Mental Fire! It explains everything…."

Wyatt was not amused. "Chris, as possible as that may be, I assure you, it's not the important thing at the moment. Just concentrate on-"

"No, no," Chris waved him aside. "I told you I'm not playing that damn game. Look- it makes perfect sense- Riddle explained it to me himself. The curse is supposed to make the victim recall every time they made the 'wrong' decision and feel like they're being burned alive until they change their mind. But there's the flaw in his plan. I'm pyrokinetic. I don't know what it feels like to be burned. It had to do something, make me feel a pain I already know… so a chess game of decisions that virtually killed me…."

"Fascinating," said Wyatt, sounding suspiciously uninterested. "I think the major point in that great revelation is that you can't get out of it until the curse has run its course. That's how magic works. Therefore…" he waited for Chris to finish his train of thought, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Chris felt himself beginning to slump again as he realized exactly to what Wyatt was alluding. "I have to understand something I obviously don't get."

"Exactly."

Chris let his head bang into the table again. He moaned pathetically.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"Look, I've been here before! That's where Voldemort was resurrected- right there, beside that tombstone! It has to be Voldemort. There _is_ no one else. He has Chris, must be keeping him in his dad's old house. It's that house on the hill. It fits; everything fits!" Harry motioned emphatically to a bewildered audience. At least, Damien, Joden, Andrea, and Duncan were bewildered. As soon as he said the word 'Voldemort,' Ron and Hermione's eyes went wide, though they didn't look as if they had totally suspected otherwise.

"Well, this is good news then, right?" said Joden, bouncing on the balls of his feet cheerfully. "He's that British one y'all know a lot about, right? So it seems we have an advantage."

The trio stared at him, utterly uncomprehending his buoyancy at a time like this.

"No…" said Harry, his expression still dazed, "this is quite possibly the worst news imaginable, actually…."

Joden blinked. "Oh."

There was silence. Suddenly, Joden straightened as though hit with a white-hot iron. "_That_ Voldemort," the breathed, his eyes locked on a distant scene only he could see. "Oh, my God. We've come across him before. He- he had Chris towards the end of August, right before he left for that school- your school. Voldemort had him for two weeks." Andrea gasped in recognition as well, and Duncan gave a brief nod of remembrance. Joden closed his eyes and put a hand over his face. "I can't believe we let him take him again."

There was silence again, but it seemed more like a moment taken out of respect.

After a moment more of it, Joden continued more seriously, "Alright. In that case, we'll need to be extremely cautious from here on out. First off, we'll need to scope out the place, see what kind of guard system they have- you know, wards and such. We'll also need to look for points of infiltration and any information that may lead us to knowledge of a weak spot or time. Andrea and Duncan, you guys focus on the upper floors, try and see if you can tell who's up there and what they're used for. _You_ three will stay with me at all times, and obey any orders I may give you without question. Under those conditions, we'll scout out the lower floors and see if there's any specific prison-like location. When we've done that and we want to get into contact with you two, Andrea and Duncan, we'll give this signal-" he broke off in order to make a series of wild flailing motions with his arms, torso, and neck. When this continued for several seconds and began to somehow involve his eyebrows, Damien cut across with,

"_Or_, as exciting as that plan and, ah, secret signal sound and, aha, _look_, I think I may have an easier solution."

Joden scowled at him, discontinuing the one-man performance in which he had been so engaged.

Damien ignored him. "How's about I just go in and ask where they're keeping my brother? I am, after all, their superior."

"Wait," said Ron. "What?"

Damien rolled his eyes. "I'm the Source of all Power's brother, dumbass. Several of the Death Eaters have seen me around in America. They won't fuck with me. The plan is good."

And, without waiting for anyone's consent, he turned and strode off towards the House, muttering something under his breath all the way.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned to the Resistance team. "What is he doing?"

Joden and Andrea could only shake their heads and shrug. Duncan, however, responded, "He seems to have a vested interest in Chris' welfare. We should still not quite trust his motives, but they do seem to point towards his getting Chris back."

"In other words, just go along with it?" queried Joden, his shoulders slumped and his expression glowering. "Good God, I hate that guy."

Andrea snorted, her expression dry. "I'd say the feeling's mutual."

Joden made a smart comeback and Andrea bantered back, and soon the two were engaged in a conversation of absolute frivolity.

Harry stared at them in utter astonishment. He glanced at Ron and Hermione's faces and found them in similar states. It wasn't long before he burst, "You three are bickering about relationships in the backyard of the most feared Dark Lord in all of England and you don't even care! What is wrong with you? Your friend could be getting tortured right in there at this very moment! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

They stopped almost instantaneously and stared at him with mouths slightly agape. Harry continued glaring them down, his breathing coming in harsh pants, the stress of the entire situation suddenly closing in on him like tides of the frigid ocean until he could do nothing but realize exactly how dire and hopeless the situation seemed. Voldemort was not one hundred meters away, he could feel it with every sense he possessed, and it was impossible that Chris was just fine, entombed in the same crumbling structure with the demons of his past.

How could they stand around joking?

Silence thrummed through the air in near-tangible waves. And then Andrea said the simplest thing anyone could have imagined.

"Harry, we know."

Joden continued grimly, "Look, dude. It hurts us all thinking about it, but Chris is strong. We just have to wait until we're actually able to help without interfering with whatever Damien's doing. Any wrong move could be devastating for _all_ of us. There's nothing we can do right now. Just… stay calm."

"You'll be nothing more than a hindrance if you are too distressed to function," Duncan finished, uncharacteristically in tune with his teammates' thoughts.

Harry stared at them a moment longer before taking a quiet breath. He could only wonder in the depths of his mind how often they had been forced into situations such as these, that they would be so steady at that moment; so calmly focused.

He shuddered and turned his attention to the ruined old mansion.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"Look at my king, Christopher," said Wyatt. "Can you see his face?"

Chris didn't move from his crumpled position. "It's you, Wyatt," he said through his sleeves, the sound coming out muffled to the point of indecipherable. "Who else _would_ it be?"

"No, Chris, it's not."

Chris sat up, intrigued. Try as he might, however, it was only a wooden face, features indiscernible. He frowned. "Why can't I see it?"

"You don't understand it. Think. What is the position of the king?"

Chris' shoulders slumped again. He was tired of these questions. He was tired of this curse. He just didn't understand, and he wouldn't understand no matter how many ways Wyatt tried to go about it. Whatever he wasn't getting, he didn't _get_ because it didn't make _sense_. Frustrated, he spat out, "Kings are the rulers. They command the armies of the nations; they wage wars and kill and plunder and hoard-"

"No, Chris. Those are the generals. Think of it this way: _what are_ kings?"

Chris glared at him. "They're people, just like everyone else."

"No. Not like everyone else."

"They're _important_ people," Chris substituted, rolling his eyes in further annoyance. "What, damn it?"

Wyatt smirked. "Yes. Important people. They have to be important or their people wouldn't follow them into wars. They wouldn't honor any of their laws or punishments. Why? Why are they that important?"

"_I don't know_! Why can't you just _tell_ me?"

"Think, Christopher! The king is so important, the normal people are willing to _die_ for him- _because he_ _is supposed to have the divine right to rule_! He is the moral compass of the _world_, for all intensive purposes! He is the order, he is the purity, he is the power- _he is the everything_. He is what humanity would die to protect, because it's all humanity is ever supposed to be. Chris, he is the most important person in existence during a war, because he is what is _right_, and his subjects know it. Christopher, why did I wage this war against the world? Why do I want magic exposed and you and me together at the height of it all?"

Chris sat frozen, barely able to move as the pieces began the dramatic process of clicking. "After Mom died…" he whispered. "…You never wanted me to be hurt like that again. You… started all this… to protect me. Didn't you?"

"Christopher," said Wyatt giving Chris the most solemn look he could have ever envisioned. "Look at my king."

Chris looked, again, at the board, feeling the dread poisoning his heart in anticipation. He should have expected his heart to stop beating, but wasn't surprised when it didn't. Suddenly, it had all been so obvious.

"Chris, who would you have to kill in order to win this war?"

"Myself," breathed Chris, staring fixatedly. "That's me- my face." His eyes shot up to Wyatt, perplexed and not just a little frightened. "What the hell are you trying to say, Wyatt? What does this mean?"

Wyatt held his gaze for eternities. Then, without breaking their look, slowly leaned back in his chair. "You tell me. How could you win a war against me by killing yourself?"

"You would… be so distraught… you would call it off?" Chris guessed, the cold sensation of dread never leaving him.

"No, Christopher. Think harder."

Chris couldn't think any harder. He was suddenly certain that his brain had been fried from all the previous thinking.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Damien returned with hardly a warning. "Come with me. The dungeons are huge, and I've had to knock everyone in the place out cold. We've got less than ten minutes."

"What?" squeaked Ron. "What about You-Know-Who?"

"Chris? I haven't found him yet. That's the whole point of us teaming up to search for him. God, did your parents drop you on your head when you were a child?"

"He means Voldemort," Harry cut in before Ron could retort.

"Oh, yeah. I said _everyone_, didn't I? Seriously, the intelligence of the both of you astounds me. Now, let's go."

Joden, Andrea, and Duncan set off behind Damien without anymore thought, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared looks of disbelief before they managed to uproot themselves and sprint along after.

Damien led them straight up the front walk, which was conspicuously well-worn for the rest of its dilapidated appearance. They passed two unconscious Death Eaters just inside the front door and kept moving without a pause. They were led through room after room, all of which were decorated as if by a grief-stricken widower, until they came upon two flights of stairs, one leading up, the other leading down. Damien started downward and they followed, all swallowing hard when they realized the bottom was nowhere in sight. The old wooden stairs creaked and wailed beneath their weight, and Harry wondered exactly how strong Damien's spell was, that anyone could sleep through the racket. The fact that they stepped over at least five bodies didn't comfort him in the slightest. And his fear of breaking a stair and falling to his death in the blackness was all encompassing.

After descending what felt like over a mile, the stairs suddenly stopped, and the conscious ones found themselves standing in the utter dark, same as before. Damien moved forward and flicked a switch on the wall. Light had barely begun to seep from the old fashioned light bulbs in the earthy ceiling before Damien was leading them at a sprint through what looked like an unfinished, auditorium sized basement.

"Start opening doors- but check for curses, first!" he added to Harry and Ron with a foul look clearly in regards to their intelligence.

Ron mimicked his look back, and he, Harry, and Hermione split up, pulling their wands out as they approached three of the many steel doors lining the walls. Andrea and Duncan likewise split up, but Joden merely bounced around in the background, unable to help until doors were made safe.

Most of the doors opened to empty stone chambers. Others held single corpses, seemingly Muggles from their clothes, and tortured to death from their expressions or wounds. Most appeared to be recent.

"This looks like he hasn't finished it, yet!" Hermione called after opening another empty room and breathing a sigh of relief. "This dungeon, I mean. I think he intends to use it once he starts the war in more earnest."

"That would be plausible," responded Damien, voice hard, as he passed her to get doors much farther down. "Although I honestly don't see him keeping that many prisoners. He usually kills on sight. This is probably for his Death Eaters' amusement."

Hermione pulled a sickened face and returned to work.

"Hey," said Joden as an afterthought as he peaked inside a door with Andrea. "Where's Voldemort? I thought he'd be down here."

"Nope, upstairs. And hurry, we don't have much longer!" Damien called from the very end of the huge chamber. And then-

"Here!" Harry yelled, his voice cracking in relief and horror at once. "Oh, God…."

Inside the small stone chamber lay Chris, eyes closed and lips blue. Harry flung the dense door open wide and threw himself into the room, kneeling immediately at Chris' side as the others rushed towards his voice. He fumbled for Chris' wrist and pulled back the Halliwell's coat sleeve to check for a pulse.

"Oh, my God," breathed Andrea, stopping in the doorway in shock. "Is he-?"

"He's got a weak pulse, and he's barely breathing," said Harry, still shaking with both relief and fear.

"Move!" commanded Damien, pushing through the crowd of friends to kneel at Chris' other side. His face was impassive and he didn't move to touch his brother. The only sign of anxiety he gave was to push his dark curls from his face as he closed his eyes. He put his hands over Chris' chest, concentrating for less than a second. "Shit," he muttered, opening his eyes and leaning back on his heels. "Dark magic. He's not waking up until it's finished with him."

Damien glanced around him as though hoping to scrounge inspiration for a plan from the bleak cell. Harry looked around, too, unwilling to study Chris' face. The boy didn't actually look like he was in pain or under a Dark curse; it was actually a pretty normal closed expression, besides the paling lips and snow white face. Harry shuddered.

Someone behind him moaned.

He was about to agree emphatically, but when he looked up, it was only to see a hooded robe stumbling to his feet. The Death Eater rubbed his head and moaned again, but this time there was an annoyed, angry undertone. The Death Eater made a move to reach into his robes.

Harry grabbed his wand and bellowed, "LOOK OUT!"

Joden, in the very rear of the group and nearest the man, instinctively shoved the group forward, toppling them out of harm's way. He used the same momentum to roundhouse kick the man in the chest, effectively knocking him backwards into the wall.

"Fuck!" he yelled, backing into the chamber himself. "They're all waking up!"

What Harry had failed to notice in his almost frantic run through the many doors and chambers looking for Chris was exactly how many Death Eaters had been guarding the dungeons. Now that he stood and looked out, it was obvious the robed ones outnumbered them three to one. He looked to Damien, forcing his emotions down into an unnoticeable place so that he had room to think. In an even voice unwonted for the situation, he asked, "How are we going to fight them enough to get out and move Chris with us? Can you knock them out again?"

"No," Damien replied, moving gracefully to his feet. "That was a one time opportunity. We'll have to fight or surrender."

"There is no surrender!" Joden spat. "They'll kill us on the spot if we let our guard down!"

"How naïve," whispered a voice from behind the hooded figures. They began to part as if the words were a command they were each aware of, as if this was frequently rehearsed. "As if I wouldn't kill intruders, regardless."

The parting bodies finally revealed the face they had been dreading since landing at the foot of the graveyard. Voldemort stood, his blood red eyes gleaming with vindictive amusement. "Surrender," he finished at a hiss, "and it will be painless."

There was a beat of silence. Harry felt his heart pounding in his ears, at the same time it felt like it would beat out of his chest. His breath was shaky, but his foot was firm as he stepped forward.

"No."

Voldemort considered him like an adult considering a child who claimed he grasped E=MC^2. And then his white hand disappeared into his robes. Harry drew his own wand a split second too late. Someone screamed, and Harry found himself miraculously alive on the ground.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"Why would Paige kill Henry?" demanded Wyatt, driving brutally for Chris to understand while Chris sat with his face in the crook of his arm, bewildered and exhausted. "Why would Phoebe kill Mom? Why, Christopher? Why?"

"I don't know!" Chris snapped. "I don't know, okay?"

"_Why don't you know_?"

"Because they wouldn't! It doesn't make any sense whatsoever! Just _shut up_, already!"

Wyatt stared at him unflinchingly. "It doesn't make sense. Why would you kill yourself to kill me?"

"I wouldn't," said Chris, his voice cold as he finally looked up to meet his brother's gaze. "It doesn't make sense."

"You wouldn't. Why not?"

"Because, you bastard, you're my brother. I don't want to kill you at all, and you wouldn't let me die for you, either! It's not supposed to _happen_ like this. It's not supposed to _be_ this way."

Wyatt almost smiled, his eyes glinting as if checking off a mark. "It's not supposed to be this way. Christopher, finish the game."

Chris stared at him, and Wyatt held the look, willing Chris to see the answer in his eyes, to understand through the mere intensity in his gaze. And Chris finally understood. He looked down at the board, with their limited pieces standing proud and unbreakable. It was his turn.

"I can't," he said, the words falling out of his mouth dead and numb, but this time it wasn't a protest of horror. It was an answer.

"Why not?" Wyatt's eyes never left him.

"Because it's not supposed to happen. This game shouldn't exist."

Wyatt finally smiled, and the intensity in his gaze was now a salute. "Yes, Christopher. This game shouldn't exist. Now, ask me your question."

Chris blinked slowly, unaware that he had a question until Wyatt prompted him and the words began to seep out. "What… do I do? How do I stop it… from existing?"

Wyatt smiled. "Exactly."

Chris understood.

As Voldemort offered the choice of a painless death, Chris' eyes snapped open.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"No," said Harry as he stepped forward, and Chris didn't have time to understand where he was or what was going on. He only knew Harry was standing over him and Voldemort was directly across from him, just outside of the doorway.

Chris didn't think about it. "Damn it, Harry!" he shouted and flung out his hand just as Voldemort lashed his wand.

Harry and Voldemort went flying in opposite directions as though a bomb had exploded between them. The Death Eaters, Resistance team, Damien, Harry, Ron and Hermione whirled to stare at him as he staggered to his feet. Damien, blinking in surprise, pushed him back down. Chris' mouth came open slightly when he realized- his butt bruised on the ground- who had done it.

"_Damien_?"

"You just woke up from a Dark curse," said Damien, offering no explanation of himself. "You shouldn't move for a while."

"I think we have bigger things to worry about," said Hermione shrilly as the Death Eaters rustled and Voldemort began to get up. Chris stared at her, along with his Resistance team, as if unable to believe these two worlds had collided while he was asleep.

"Great, now we're disorienting him," snapped Damien. "Great job. I hope he's not got brain damage… well, any _more_ brain damage than he was obviously born with."

"Enough!" hissed Voldemort, sweeping to the front of the group again. "You've had long enough to consider your surrender. Death Eaters: take care of this problem. Leave Potter and Halliwell alive for me." And he vanished behind the hurricane of black robes and flying green jets of light.

The occupants of the room who weren't already down dropped to the ground. As Damien, Andrea, and Duncan began defensive movements, Chris crawled on his elbows towards where Harry was sprawled with Ron and Hermione.

Hermione opened her mouth to begin explaining, but Chris cut her off.

"I don't care how this happened, just-" he pulled a long chain necklace from around his throat and telekinetically pushed Harry, Ron, and Hermione's heads together before throwing it around them. The emblem of a triquetra slid down the chain to rest on Ron's throat and, before the trio could say a word, Chris pressed it. They vanished in a gust of ruby mist.

Chris rolled onto his back as the sounds of a battle echoed impossibly loud through the small stone cell and breathed a faint sigh of relief. Harry, Ron, and Hermione shouldn't have to fight yet; not when there was a trained team and two Halliwells there to take care of it.

With that last thought, he heaved himself to his feet, head pounding from an insetting migraine, and staggered forward to help his teammates and brother. At least he could breathe easier knowing the Hogwarts students were safe.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"No!" Harry yelled jumping up just as he, Ron, and Hermione hit the floor in a strange place. He whirled around, stumbling and falling over from the necklace still around all of their throats. He fumbled for it and, assuming it would work in reverse, jabbed it into his neck. Before he even thought about where he had been transported, he used the last of the charm to take them back into the fray.

* * *

A/N: Thank you guys so much for sticking with me this far. I know it was a long, almost impossible-to-recover-from wait, and I really hope that'll never happen again. But honestly, if you're reading this, THANK YOU. Without readers, stories would just be paper. Or internet memory space. Whichever. You get the point.

Thanks again, and I LOVE YOU REVIEWERS!! Oh my God, talk about brightening my days. =]

And, of course, a huge thanks to Stoneage Woman for beta reading again. You're so incredible. :)


	32. Of Love

**Standard Disclaimer.**

**

* * *

Chapter 32: Of Love**

_Before he even thought about where he had been transported, he used the last of the charm to take them back into the fray._

Harry's eyes readjusted to the dim light of the dungeons in time to witness Joden drop the last of the Death Eaters with a roundhouse kick to the face, wand waving be damned. Andrea was conjuring ropes and Duncan was securing them to the conscious and unconscious Death Eaters alike. The three team members were breathing heavily, and Harry only wished he had been able to see what they were capable of that they could outmaneuver the dozen Death Eaters in the time it took him to use the teleportation charm.

And then he noticed Chris. And with Chris, his eyes found Voldemort.

Chris and Voldemort faced each other, one calm and slightly out of breath, the other barely containing a seething rage that threatened to twist his taut face.

"They were weak, anyway," hissed Voldemort, his long fingers clenched as he glared down Chris.

Chris didn't seem to notice the death glare. He shrugged at the comment. "Funny, I thought so, too." He paused for a moment, thinking, and then asked, "So… are you going to, um, _regroup_ now? I wouldn't suggest trying to take on FU1 alone. As you may have noticed, we're pretty epic."

It was that moment that Andrea glanced up and froze, her eyes locking with Harry's. Her mouth opened, and she blinked. "Um… Chris…"

He glanced back at her and likewise froze upon catching Harry's gaze. There was silence as the two boys stared at each other. Chris broke the gaze by looking back at Voldemort then back to Harry. He looked back at Voldemort and then sighed, shaking his head. "Goddamn it, Harry."

Harry whipped out his wand faster than his own thoughts could follow, and before he knew what he was doing, he charged at Voldemort, yelling, "_Stupefy!_"

Voldemort conjured a shield with a simple swish of his wand, and Chris had to dive out of the way of the rebounded spell. Voldemort retaliated in the same swish that conjured the shield, and Harry had to duck beneath a thin but white-hot jet of fire.

He faced Voldemort, panting with rage and adrenaline, his wand clutched in knuckles that were shaking, turning white. He could finish this, here, now. _Neither can live while the other survives. _He hadn't expected to see Voldemort when he had woken up that morning, hadn't expected to be faced with this opportunity, but he could end it today.

_Avada Kedavra._

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but his lips wouldn't move. His lips refused to form them. He thought of Bellatrix Lestrange laughing as Sirius fell through the veil and his own reaction. _Crucio_. Not _Avada Kedavra_. His lips hadn't been able to form that worst unforgivable even then. He looked at Voldemort, who was standing motionless, staring at him, and thought of his parents. The parents he had only seen in pictures and as echoes from Voldemort's wand. Voldemort's wand. Green light_, Avada Kedavra, _his father's last act of bravery. Green light, _Avada Kedavra_, his mother's last scream. Wormtail, _Avada Kedavra_, Cedric Diggory fell, spread eagle. Green light.

_Avada Kedavra_.

Harry froze, wand poised.

"I'm tired of playing with you, Potter," said Voldemort. "_Avada Kedavra_!"

Harry hit the stone wall to his right with such force his vision blurred. He slid to the floor and sat, stunned.

"Damn it, Harry," snapped Chris, standing with his hand still out from his telekinetic swipe. "If you're so determined to come back and fight, you could at least have the decency to, you know, _fight_ when somebody shouts a killing curse at you! That was fucking pathetic!"

Harry growled wordlessly at him and staggered back to his feet. "Stay out of this, Chris," he said, slurring slightly. "This is my fight."

"What are you going to do?" Chris asked, his tone suddenly quiet as he caught Harry's eye. "Kill him?"

Harry didn't move. "You said it yourself," Harry muttered. "You and Wyatt aren't me and Voldemort. Neither of us can live while the other survives. We just can't. I have to kill him, or he kills me. That's how it is."

Chris stared at him, pensive behind his hard exterior.

Voldemort seethed in the background as his two foes ignored him. He whipped his wand in a circular motion encompassing both Chris and Harry and cried, "_Shlagio Priora!_"

Harry shouted, "_Protego_!" shielding himself and Chris, but the force of Voldemort's curse caused the shield to act more like a giant scoop, and both Harry and Chris were flung into the far wall.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Harry shouted before he even stood, but Voldemort brushed away the spell with a simple flick of his wand and returned the attempt with another wall-shakingly powerful curse. Chris grabbed Harry and used intangibility to avoid whatever that fate might have been. The curse hit the wall behind them and shattered it so that the once thick blocks of stone crumbled into sand-like grains of pebbles.

Voldemort scowled as the two boys clambered to their feet. "I wonder," he hissed, raising his wand once again. "Does your little intangibility act work against _Avada Kedavra, _dear little Lord Christopher? Let's find out!"

He made as though to swipe his wand in the Killing Curse, opening his thin lips to form the words, but Harry sent a larger fragment of the exploded wall at him, forcing the dark lord to conjure a shield instead.

"Leave him out of this!" snarled Harry, stepping in front of Chris and holding his wand threateningly. "This is between you and me! You're going to pay for what you've done! It ends today!"

_You're going to pay for what you've done! _The words echoed in Chris' head even as Voldemort turned the Killing Curse on Harry instead. Harry dove to the side and returned with a full-body lock curse, which Voldemort easily deflected.

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

"_So, why didn't the curse work on Harry?" Chris asked as he sipped his coffee and prompted his bishop forward. It was a few weeks before Christmas break. He and Dumbledore sat across from each other on the roof of the Gryffindor tower, a chessboard balanced magically in the air between them courtesy of Dumbledore. The roof was too steep to set it down without it sliding off for a several hundred foot drop. The moon was full and huge behind them, making the chess pieces cast long shadows across the board. "I looked into it, and it's supposed to be unbeatable. No magic can stop it."_

_Dumbledore nodded, scratching his beard as he contemplated his next move. He sat cross-legged in his voluminous green robes, somehow looking just as natural on the steep rooftop as Chris. "You are correct," he said, still wondering what traps Chris had set up on the board. "No magic can beat it. It was love. His mother died to protect him, leaving him her love as a shield stronger than any magic. That's his power that Voldemort doesn't know about. That's the power that will defeat him."_

_He prodded his rook forward to take one of Chris' knights, and cursed two moves later when Chris used the now-open space to take Dumbledore's queen, putting his king in check._

"_Love, huh?" said Chris after the pause. He didn't look convinced. "So, in other words, he'll lose unless he's fighting for those he loves? That's kind of debilitating."_

_Dumbledore smiled even as he pondered how to get his king out of check for longer than single moves. He was beginning to see Chris' traps everywhere. "In a way. He's a survivor, not a fighter, though. All he needs is his own love for those dear to him, and their love in return, and he will survive anything for them, including Voldemort. If he simply fought out of anger… when he and Voldemort cross paths… what's to say he'll continue down his own at the end, and not start down Voldemort's? Revenge darkens anyone's steps, and the final destination is never light."_

"_Hn," said Chris, chewing on the thought. At length, he shrugged, moved his last pawn forward, and said, "Checkmate. You just got pwn'd by a pawn, man."_

XXxxXXxxXXxxXXxxXX

Harry reflected a curse and tried another disarming charm. He had to duck into a deserted cell to avoid another Killing Curse.

_You're going to pay for what you've done._

"No," said Chris, unaware of the word out of his mouth until he found himself between Voldemort and Harry, arms outstretched, holding them both immobile with telekinesis while they were surprised.

Voldemort and Harry seethed at him once they realized what was going on.

"Damn it, Chris, this is my destiny!" growled Harry. "Stay out of it! You have no idea of the horrors he's committed! I have to kill him! If he escapes, he'll just kill and torture some more! _I have to kill him_!"

"…Not like this," he said.

Before his words could register in anyone's minds, he pivoted and elbowed Voldemort in the face, adding a telekinetic boost to the already powerful hit. Voldemort, too surprised by the Muggle style to react in time, careened towards the stone wall behind him. He hit it with a sickening _crack_ and collapsed on the floor in a heap of black robes.

Harry staggered as Chris released his telekinetic hold. "Wh-what?"

Chris ignored him in favor of grabbing the front of his robes and dragging him around Voldemort towards the door. His team, catching his meaning, likewise ushered Ron and Hermione, who were shaking almost too much to stand, to the exit. Hermione was in tears.

Chris practically carried Harry up the stairs and out of the old manor as Harry gaped and struggled, unable to process how easily Chris had taken Voldemort out and knowing he should go back and finish the job. Would he ever again have this kind of advantage over Voldemort? Had this ever happened before, _ever_?

"You're going to kill him in battle by accident," Chris snapped as he and Harry almost went down due to Harry's struggling. "Not standing over him while he's unconscious! You're a fucking Gryffindor, for Christ's sake! I'm not going to watch you kill like that!"

"Why, because that's what Lord Christopher would have done?" Harry retorted. "Well, I'm not you, and this is my fight!"

Chris, hand still gripping the front of Harry's robes, swung him around so that they were standing toe-to-toe. Harry realized blankly that they were within an inch of each other's height as Chris' stormy eyes bored into his own with nothing shielding or belittling them. "That's right," he growled, ignoring how his team mates, Hermione, and Ron caught up with them and hovered nearby, watching with concern. "You're not me, so if you're going to kill, do it the right way at the right time. Kill to protect the ones you love; kill to defend the places you call home. Don't just charge into a random dungeon with nothing but hatred backing you up. You're undoing everything your mother died to give you by relying on the one thing she fought against in life. Don't kill out of hatred. For the love of God, whatever you do, do _not_ kill out of _hatred_."

Silence fell like the fog around their feet as Chris and Harry glared at each other. The ones watching didn't move, afraid to even breathe lest they ruin whatever point each boy was trying to make.

Then Harry took a breath, and Chris released the front of his robes. The two looked away from each other and Chris took a half step back, his eyes clouded and distant.

At length, he said, "Damien probably went to get Wyatt. They'll be after me soon. We need to leave."

"Jet's this way," muttered Joden. He led the rest of the way in silence.

Chris took over piloting and, after being told Harry, Ron, and Hermione had already seen the Resistance base, flew there.

The three hour flight was silent.

Joden strode off to brief the council of leaders about both the emissary mission with the Order and the rescue mission immediately, leaving Chris with his schoolmates.

The four stood in the hanger silently. Harry watched as a few people appeared from a steel door to the left and began setting up to refuel the jet.

Chris sighed. "C'mon. I've got something to get in contact with Dumbledore in my apartment."

He started walking towards the steel door the jet crew had come through, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione bounded after him.

"Apartment?" Hermione asked. "So you live here? By yourself?"

Chris cast a look back at her. "Who else would I live with? All of my family is either dead or evil."

Hermione looked properly embarrassed for bringing it up, and they were quiet for a few minutes as they navigated the hallways. After a full five minutes of walking, Ron asked, "How big _is_ this place?"

Chris gave a half shrug. "'bout the size of Hogwarts."

"Why couldn't we see it from the sky?" asked Harry, simply curious.

"Well, it wouldn't be much of a base if just anyone could see it, now, would it?"

The three were silent for a few more minutes, trying not to let his sarcastic answers get to them. They were used to it by now, but, for some reason, it seemed a little darker than usual.

"Are you okay?" asked Hermione, breaking the silence again. "I mean, you did just wake up from a Dark curse, probably cast by Voldemort himself."

"Nobody had a problem when they let me fly a jet for three hours over the Atlantic." He paused as their expressions turned into those of belated horror before adding, "Actually, I'm really hungry. We can go to the cafeteria while we wait for the old man's reply. It usually takes about half an hour if he's not expecting me."

He stopped suddenly in front of door and stuck in a key to unlock it while Harry and Ron absently passed him. Hermione pulled them back.

Chris swung open the door and led the way in.

"Huh," said Ron as they entered. "I didn't know you were obsessively clean."

"Obsessively," confirmed Chris as he easily found the talisman on one of his desks.

The front room, probably the living room, had a gray sofa and short coffee table in the middle, and desks and shelves lined the walls. The desks, five of them, all had desktop PCs. Most of the shelves supported books, magical and non-magical, and random but organized objects such as globes, weapons, spare coffee makers, cauldrons, and potion bottles. Through an archway, they could see a small, neat kitchen and two more doors.

"Alright," said Chris as he pocketed the talisman. "Dumbledore should feel his heat up any minute now and see my message. Let's get food."

Before the nosy Hogwarts trio had time to poke around his belongings, he led them back out and down another hallway. He smirked as he noticed their miffed expressions.

"So, you're, like, a leader here?" asked Ron. "Because you lied about your age?"

Chris' eyes widened. "How did you know I-? Oh, tell me you _didn't_! Damn it, now they're going to try and make me give up my position and go back to fucking high school. Thanks, guys. As if this war wasn't hard enough."

"They wouldn't, would they?" asked Harry.

"Well, technically they can't. But they'll still try."

They descended a staircase, which opened out into the cafeteria. It was smaller than the Great Hall, but not by much. Instead of having each table filled with selections of food, however, food bars lined the walls.

"I keep forgetting this is America," Hermione muttered as she eyed the selection. Pizza. Hamburgers. Hotdogs. Fried Chicken. Salad. She went to the salad bar.

Chris, Harry, and Ron all opted for pizza.

They met at a table and ate (or in Ron's case, inhaled) quietly for a few minutes.

Hermione asked without preamble, "What's wrong?"

Chris glanced up, surprised at the question directed at him. "What do you mean?"

"You're different."

"I'm tired and hungry."

"That's not it. What happened?"

Chris and Hermione stared at each other. Chris looked away first.

He stared at a column as he mulled over what to tell them. He mulled over what he could tell them, when he didn't quite know everything himself. After a few more moments, he whispered, "I know how to save Wyatt."

The trio stopped eating.

"Save?" repeated Ron.

Chris nodded. "I've already told Harry I can't kill him. He's not Voldemort. He's my brother."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "But… how? If you just use a spell or potion to change his morality, that's not him. It's just magic. You would be lying to yourself and him."

Chris shook his head slowly. "No… it's not exactly a potion or spell. Not really magic."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Are you going to _talk_ to him? And you just figured that out?"

Chris didn't react to the sarcasm. He still appeared lost in thought. "No, I've talked to him all I can."

"Then… what?" asked Harry, not liking the change in his friend.

Chris didn't respond immediately. He stared off into space for a moment before replying, "This war was never supposed to happen. I knew that, but I never _knew_ it before. I didn't know I was supposed to act on that assumption. But I was, and I will. I have to."

"Chris," gasped Hermione, her jaw dropping as she connected the dots before her friends. "You don't really mean- I mean, that's dangerous! This is an entire war, not a single event you would be changing! There's no telling what alternate dimension might crop up! You could accidently make everything worse!"

"Wait, what's he going to do?" demanded Harry.

"He's thinking about going back in time!"

If she was expecting Harry and Ron to share her horror, she was disappointed.

Harry shrugged. "Well, we did to save Sirius's life, didn't we? We'd kind of be hypocrites to tell him he can't."

"But that was a single event that took place in a single evening," said Hermione, adopting her lecture tone. "It only affected the lives of Order members and us during his life after that. This would affect millions, if not billions of lives. Every one of those people would have to lead totally different lives, opening up so many different alternate scenarios, it's hardly even imaginable. And this would all depend on Chris's decisions. The world would literally be in his hands alone for the molding." She quickly added, "Not that you would do a bad job or whatnot, but that's a lot of pressure, Chris, and a delicacy of judgment I'm not sure anyone could deal with."

"What specific event would you have to change?" asked Harry, curious again. "I mean, when did this war start? How could you stop it?"

"He snapped after our mother died…" said Chris, staring so far off into space that his tone reminded Harry of Luna's. "Maybe if I could stop her death…" He frowned slightly as he watched whatever had drawn his attention in his mind. "No, that's not right. It was there before that. I always thought something had scared him when he was little. Scared him too much. And little kids are so impressionable…. I have to find out what happened. I have to stop that from happening…." He blinked suddenly, as if realizing for the first time that he had been talking aloud. He laughed slightly. "You know, I don't know yet. I'll have to research it. It was probably before I was even born. …I'm glad I didn't burn the Manor down. I'll probably need to go back through some old photo albums and stuff to get an estimate of when he changed." He chuckled and admitted almost to himself, "I'm really bad about burning things down."

The trio stared at him.

He smiled back.

Harry wondered if Chris was sane enough to go back in time with the fate of the world resting on his shoulders. He seemed even more neurotic than usual.

"Are you coming back to Hogwarts with us?" whispered Hermione.

The question made all three boys freeze. Then Harry and Ron looked back to Chris in askance.

Chris's eyes crinkled and he looked down at his plate of half-eaten pizza.

"I need to talk to Dumbledore one more time…" he murmured. "But I can't go back to classes. If I'm going to change the world, I think I need to spend more time on a plan than on Transfiguration homework."

The words were logical. The decision was understandable. Harry knew he would have felt the same way in Chris's position. But his heart sank like a cold, rough stone into his stomach, anyway.

He gave a brief nod and forced the words to come out. "So, this is goodbye, then?"

Chris didn't look at him or any of them. "No. You can still call my name if you ever need my help, and I'll still hear you. At least until I go back in time and we probably never meet in the new reality. But… I'm not _abandoning_ you."

_Just leaving us_, Harry's mind finished unintentionally. He nodded again. "Right."

Chris opened his mouth as though to say something, but stopped, distracted. He pulled the talisman out of his pocket to find it glowing blue. He sighed softly. "All clear," he muttered.

He looked back up to his friends, and this time it was they who avoided his gaze. His shoulders sank. He sighed and murmured, "You guys are going to be okay. Harry, you'll win, no doubt about it. And you're going to grow old and have kids and send them off to Hogwarts, too. I promise."

"And you?" Harry asked. "You'll go to the past, save the future, and come back and pick up a happy-go-lucky life like this never happened?"

Chris cringed. He got the feeling he wasn't going to live to see the new future. It wasn't so inexplicable. If he was going to stop something that scared _Wyatt_, the most powerful, self-confident person he'd ever known, at a time where the Charmed Ones were so new to their powers they'd be more of a hindrance than a help, he kind of doubted he'd make it out alive.

He said, "Something like that."

And Harry nodded again. "Right. So, ah, how do we…?" He motioned at the glowing blue talisman.

Chris nodded. He waved his hand and flamed them straight to Dumbledore's office.

When Dumbledore caught his eye, the old man knew what was going on. He gave a brief nod, a little more sagely than Harry had. He laced his fingers together as Harry, Ron, and Hermione swayed, all three slightly green from the method of transportation.

"I see," said Dumbledore. He could tell from Chris' eyes that he wasn't going to ask for expulsion or an extended leave of absence. The teenager was done asking. This was goodbye. "I wish you safety and success, my boy. Let me know when it is over so I can send you a congratulatory cup of coffee."

Chris grinned. "I'll take you up on that."

Dumbledore gave a single nod, but it looked more like he was bowing his head. "Tell me," he said quietly. "Have you learned anything these months I've kept you against your will?"

For a moment, Chris looked startled. The expression faded into one of seriousness, however, and he looked back at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, all of whom wore expressions of suppressed anguish and love. He felt his heart clench and knew his own expression probably mirrored theirs. He looked out the window over the calm lawns and gently rippling lake. He remembered when he first arrived in this office and had been surprised to find not a single dead body in sight. He remembered experiencing that peace and tranquility for the first time in his life as he went through a school untouched by war and death. He looked back to Dumbledore, who had forced kindness and understanding down Chris' throat like a lemon drop and cup of coffee.

He answered quietly, simply, "Yeah."

Dumbledore nodded, seeming to understand.

Chris looked back at his friends. He attempted to smile. "So, um… I'll see you around. Yeah?"

Hermione glomped him. Instead of using intangibility, Chris actually hugged her back. "I'll send you a good book every once in a while, okay?" he whispered.

She nodded into his shoulder, and when she pulled away, she hid her face behind a curtain of bushy hair. Chris heard her sniff.

Ron shook his hand and wished him good luck. Chris said, "Tell your family I said hi." Ron nodded.

There was silence as Harry and Chris stood in front of each other. Without a word, the two shook hands. They'd said enough.

With one last look around the room and a courtesy nod to his favorite phoenix, Chris smiled wryly and flamed out.

Halfway across the world from one another, Chris and Harry stood still a moment longer. As one, they took a deep breath, and as one, they turned and resumed their quests to save their worlds.

**The End**

* * *

A/N: Haha, I bet you thought I was dead, didn't you? Well, surprise!! Here's the last official chapter. The epilogue will be a scene from the new future in which New Chris crosses paths with the Golden Trio again... for the first time.... Anyways, maybe it won't take me another school year to update. Really, really sorry about that.

Thank Stoneage Woman. Not only did she beta most of this story, including this chapter, she inspired me to get off my lazy ass and write a decent last chapter. Stoneage Woman: You are the coolest. Thanks for everything. =]

And thank you to all my lovely, awesome, brilliant reviewers. You guys also rock. =D Let me know what you think about the ending. =]


	33. Of Endings Or Beginnings

**Epilogue.**

"Get up! Ron - Harry - come on now, get up, this is urgent!"

Harry sat up quickly and the top of his head hit canvas.

"S' matter?" he said.

Dimly, he could tell that something was wrong. The noises in the campsite had changed. The singing had stopped. He could hear screams, and the sound of people running. He slipped down from the bunk and reached for his clothes, but Mr. Weasley, who had pulled on his jeans over his own pajamas, said, "No time, Harry - just grab a jacket and get outside - quickly!"

Harry did as he was told and hurried out of the tent, Ron at his heels. By the light of the few fires that were still burning, he could see people running away into the woods, fleeing something that was moving across the field toward them, something that was emitting odd flashes of light and noises like gunfire.

Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting toward them; then came a burst of strong green light, which illuminated the scene. A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing straight upward, was marching slowly across the field. Harry squinted at them…They didn't seem to have faces…Then he realized that their heads were hooded and their faces masked. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings that rose from the wands into the air.

Two of the figures were very small. More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled. Once or twice Harry saw one of the marchers blast a tent out of his way with his wand. Several caught fire. The screaming grew louder.

The floating people were suddenly illuminated as they passed over a burning tent and Harry recognized one of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The other three looked as though they might be his wife and children. One of the marchers below flipped Mrs. Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress fell down to reveal voluminous drawers and she struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee.

"That's sick," Ron muttered, watching the smallest Muggle child, who had begun to spin like a top, sixty feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from side to side. "That is really sick…"

Hermione and Ginny came hurrying toward them, pulling coats over their nightdresses, with Mr. Weasley right behind them. At the same moment, Bill, Charlie, and Percy emerged from the boys' tent, fully dressed, with their sleeves rolled up and their wands out.

"We're going to help the Ministry!" Mr. Weasley shouted over all the noise, rolling up his own sleeves. "You lot - get into the woods, and stick together. I'll come and fetch you when we've sorted this out!"

Bill, Charlie, and Percy were already sprinting away toward the oncoming marchers; Mr. Weasley tore after them. Ministry wizards were dashing from every direction toward the source of the trouble. The crowd beneath the Roberts family was coming ever closer.

"C'mon," said Fred, grabbing Ginny's hand and starting to pull her toward the wood. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and George followed. They all looked back as they reached the trees. The crowd beneath the Roberts family was larger than ever; they could see the Ministry wizards trying to get through it to the hooded wizards in the center, but they were having great difficulty. It looked as though they were scared to perform any spell that might make the Roberts family fall.

And then they heard a new sound.

"Ministry officials, please vacate the immediate area quickly and calmly," said a woman's voice. She spoke loudly and clearly with enough natural authority to make Harry think immediately of Dumbledore.

He, Hermione, and the Weasleys stopped and turned to look back.

The Ministry officials must have thought she sounded like Dumbledore, too, for they were backing off with no argument. And, 'she' appeared to be a pretty woman with long brown hair and a stance like an experienced fighter. Surrounding her were two other pretty women, a man with dirty blond hair, and two bigger men with dark brown hair. They all stood as if they were born to dominate the battlefield, and the approaching men in silver masks did little to dampen that image.

The woman who had spoken flicked her wrists and the Muggle child that had been spinning like a top froze in place, as though time itself had frozen. The Muggle mother screamed.

"Phoebe," said the first woman, and one of the other women rose in the air, appearing to levitate without a spell. She flew up to the Muggle woman and child and spoke briefly to the mother. Then the woman nodded and wrapped one arm securely around Phoebe. Phoebe took the frozen child in her other arm. Together, Phoebe slowly levitated to the ground. She returned for Mr. Roberts, and once the family was reunited, the first woman flicked her hands at the little boy, and he unfroze, wobbled, and plopped to the ground, dizzy.

"Follow me," said one of the men with brown hair, and he led the Muggle family away from the masked Wizards.

The others faced the masked Wizards, their expressions turning cold and angry.

"They're not demons," said Phoebe, "so don't kill them. I think the Ministry would like to arrest them."

"Got it," said the two other women. They took defensive stances, and the two remaining men stepped out of the way.

"Are they _Muggle_ fighting?" breathed Ron. "They can't be serious! Where are their wands?"

"Didn't you see them use their hands?" returned Hermione, who was watching with wide eyed fascination. "I don't think they need wands! Oh, my God – I think they must be the Charmed Ones!"

She practically squealed the last part, and the others turned to stare at her.

"What?" asked Harry.

"The Charmed Ones! They're Wiccan sisters who were prophesized to fight evil! Together, they're the most powerful force of Good in this world!"

"Wiccan?"

"They don't need wands, and their spells are a little different than ours," she explained, then made a 'shush' gesture, returning her attention to the scene behind them.

Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny shared looks before doing the same.

The ensuing fight was incredible. The three women – sisters – didn't use wands at all, though they dodged spells, curses, and jinxes like they had been training for it their whole lives. They dodged through the jets of light with spectacular leaps, rolls, and flips until they got close enough to the caster to kick his feet out from under him or punch his mask clean off and reveal a bloody nose.

The wizards were interrupted from watching the fight, however, by a crashing sound from behind them and then the yell of, "Motherfu – WYATT! You dumbass!"

They whirled around and found two teenagers about their ages untangling themselves on the ground. The rustling bushes behind them indicated that they had just fallen through.

One of the boys seemed closer to Harry, Ron, and Hermione's age; he had dark brown hair and light eyes, which were currently narrowed in a lethal glare at the other boy. The other boy seemed closer to Fred and George's age; he had blond hair and equally light eyes. He looked exasperated and retorted,

"Look, if you hadn't gotten us lost in the first pl-"

"Me?! You're the one with the Magical Spidey Senses, you twice-blessed assho-"

"Dude, _stop cussing_! You've already been grounded twice this week for it!"

"Well, I wouldn't have to if you'd just use a little bit of common sense every once in a while," the brunette snapped and, for the first time, looked up to find their audience. He blinked, and the blond, noticing his distraction, glanced over at them, too.

"Oh," said the blond. He quickly finished untangling himself from the brunette and got to his feet. He stood awkwardly. "Hi."

The wizards and witches stared.

The brunette clambered up as well and, instead of giving a greeting, looked over their shoulders at the fight unfolding below. He swore again. The blond gave him a dirty look.

"They're already fighting," the brunette said. "Think they noticed we weren't in the tent when they got up?"

"Um, I'd be willing to bet that yes, yes they probably noticed. And they'll be coming to kick our butts next. Why did we absolutely need to see the leprechaun shindig again?"

"How many times have you seen leprechauns getting jiggy with it?" asked the brunette as if that answered everything. He shook his head at the blond's stupidity.

"Chris, we just went to the Fall Festival not a week ago! Not only did we see leprechauns dancing, there were nymphs, brownies, faeries, pixies –"

"You are entirely missing the point," the brunette, now revealed as 'Chris' said.

"Wait," said Hermione, her eyes going impossibly wide. "Wyatt and Chris? _Halliwell?_"

The boys winced and shared a sidelong look.

"She's onto us," Chris muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Wyatt eyed her warily. "Are we erasing their memories or convincing them they're mistaken?"

Chris blinked. Then he turned and stared fully at Wyatt. "Well, we can't good-all convince them they're mistaken _now_, can we? Dear Jesus, are you _really_ that thick? I can't believe we're related. Seriously. Cannot. Believe."

Wyatt rolled his eyes and returned his attention to Hermione. "Yeah," he said. "I'm Wyatt Halliwell. That's Christopher Halliwell. Would you terribly mind not telling our mother and aunts we were roaming around at night trying to locate the whereabouts of the leprechaun hoedown? We'd be much obliged. They'd kill us."

"Oh," said Hermione. "Er – sure. Alright."

"You found the Leprechaun Romp?" exclaimed Fred and George in unison, their eyes filling with awed sparkles. "Are you serious?"

Chris smirked. "Hell yeah, we found it. And it was _incredible_. I don't know how they managed to smuggle all that beer in. Even _shrunk_…."

"We're pretty sure it was enough to change the overall composition of the Atlantic," added Wyatt, nodding solemnly.

Fred and George shared truly impish looks. They turned back to Chris and Wyatt and asked, "Where?"

Chris opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a feminine shout from the campground. His face snapped back to the fight, eyes losing the wicked glint in favor of a sharp, experienced look.

The wizards and witches spun around to find one of the women crumpling to the ground, a faint purple glow pulsing around her unmoving form.

"Paige," breathed Wyatt, his face draining of color, even in the firelight.

"Wyatt," said Chris sharply.

"Right," said Wyatt. His jaw tensed, and the two pushed through Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys, sprinting for the battle.

"Oh, my God," gasped Hermione, stumbling to catch her balance after the thoughtless shove. "They can't just charge off like that!"

"They can if they're really Halliwells," said Ginny. Her expression was grim and just a little unnerved. "We used to hear bedtime stories about their family vanquishing demons and ridding the world of evil. Their powers aren't like ours."

Wyatt and Chris split up just a second before they hit the meat of the fight. While Wyatt made a beeline for Paige, his hands already beginning to glow gold, Chris roundhouse kicked the nearest wizard in the chest, sending him flying with just a little too much force to be natural. The man landed in a heap and didn't get up. Wyatt folded to Paige's side and held his glowing hands over her, and Chris moved to fight back to back with the woman with the longest hair, who had let herself be surrounded by five wizards. He flicked his wrist and sent two wizards careening backwards by some invisible force. They landed yards away in sprays of dirt.

The woman spun around and screamed, "_Christopher! What the hell do you think you're doing?_ Get back to the forest! And take your brother! _NOW!_"

"Mom, we've got this! Don't worry!"

"CHRISTOPHER, I'M NOT JOKING AROUND! GET OUT OF HERE!"

"_Mom!_" Chris grabbed his mother by the shoulders and threw her and himself to the ground a split second before a jet of green light could hit them. He rolled off her and slapped the ground, and, as if ripping itself directly from the earth, a rope of scarlet fire lashed out by the man's feet and struck him in the chest like whip. He crashed backward with an agonized scream and writhed.

"I am useful enough now?" Chris asked his mother, glaring.

The woman glared right back, unamused. At length, however, she said, "Duck, don't try shielding. The worst ones just go straight through."

Chris nodded. "Right."

They jumped back to their feet and started in on the remaining two Death Eaters. The other woman finished her fight and ran to help Chris, whose opponent had gotten too close for the fire trick and seemed immune to telekinesis. She levitated and dropkicked the Death Eater in the back. As he went down, Chris caught his shoulders, kneed him in the stomach, and sent him down harder with an elbow to the back of the neck. He didn't move when he hit the dirt.

Chris and the other woman slapped hands companionably.

"'Bout time you're old enough to help," the woman said with a grin. "God, I missed this."

Even from the hill above, the Gryffindors could see Chris frown in confusion. "Missed this? What are you talking about?"

"Phoebe!" said the mother, finishing her Death Eater with a punch to the unmasked face. "Enough chit chat. Y'all start roping up the Death Eaters. And _be careful!_ Just because they're down doesn't–"

"–always mean they're out," Chris and Phoebe chorused. "We know."

"Hey, Wyatt," said Chris, strolling over. "Some rope?"

Wyatt glanced up from the ground where Paige was beginning to stir, no longer glowing the ugly purple. "Huh?" he said and, noticing that the fight was over, "Oh. Rope. Yeah."

He waved a hand and over a dozen lengths of rope simply fell out of the air at Chris' feet. Chris bent down, grabbed a few, slung them over his shoulder, and handed the rest to Phoebe. They kept close together as they grabbed Death Eaters by the collars of robes and began tying them up. Piper moved around subduing the ones that were still moving. Wyatt helped Paige, who was rubbing her head as if from a hangover, sit up.

"That," said Ron, "was _wicked_!"

"Amazing," breathed Hermione as the other Weasleys and Harry echoed Ron's sentiment.

After a few minutes, the Ministry officials began trickling back in from the forest. They used their wands to finish tying up the remaining Death Eaters and started rounding them up, all the while thanking the Halliwells and yelling for some dementors from Azkaban.

Harry shuddered and wondered if they'd be able to leave before the dementors showed up.

"We'll ask Dad," said Ron, noticing the shudder. "I don't think anyone wants to be around when they get here."

Harry just nodded and tried not to feel the blush that threatened to climb up his neck and into his cheeks.

Together, Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys navigated their way through the growing crowd, keeping an eye out for Mr. Weasley or the tent, whichever they happened upon first.

As it was, Mr. Weasley appeared out of nowhere and grabbed them. "Harry, Ron, Hermione!" he said. "Come on, Mrs. Halliwell would like to speak to you three."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged startled glances.

"About what?" asked Ron as they nevertheless followed Mr. Weasley.

"Oh, you know," said Mr. Weasley. "Hogwarts and your escapades and whatnot."

"They know about us?" asked Hermione shrilly.

"They spent the game with the minister," said Mr. Weasley. "Special guests. And you know how he likes to impress. Come on, they're just over here…."

A few seconds later found Harry, Ron, Hermione, Chris, Wyatt, and Piper being left alone inside the Halliwell tent. The inside of the tent looked like a normal house: a small living room with sofas and coffee tables, separated bedrooms, bathrooms, and a rather large kitchen. They could hear Paige and Phoebe chatting in the kitchen from where they sat in the living room.

"So, I hear you three attend the magic school here," said Piper, setting a plate of what looked like freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the table in front of them. Harry's mouth watered, and he, Ron, and Hermione took a few.

"Yes, ma'am," said Harry when he could speak through the mouthful. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Piper waved a hand and said, "It's Piper, please. And how do you like it there? Classes good, teachers competent? Safe? I've heard you've been through quite a few dangerous situations."

"They were only dangerous because I was specifically targeted," said Harry, feeling a need to stick up for his school and Dumbledore. "The other students have never been in any more danger than they would have anywhere else."

Piper laughed slightly. "It's okay, Harry. I understand." She laughed again and said, "Trust me, I understand."

Harry laughed nervously. "Yeah," he said. "I guess you would."

"And the classes?" she prompted. "How would you describe those?"

"They're exemplary, Mrs. Halliwell," said Hermione, sitting on the edge of the sofa and seeming to quiver with her enthusiasm. "The teachers are experts in their fields, and they expect the best from each of us. They're always willing to help anyone who's having trouble, and they make sure to keep everything as safe as possible. They're _tremendously_ helpful."

Piper nodded, seeming to consider it. "The reason I ask," she said slowly, "is because _that_ one–" she made a vague motion towards Chris, "–got expelled from our magic school, and I need to find another place for him. And that one–" she nodded towards Wyatt, "–is itching for a charge, and Dumbledore seems to think Harry would be a nice start."

"Charge?" said Harry at the same time Ron snickered,

"_Expelled_?"

"It was an accident," said Chris, crossing his arms. "That's my story, and I'm sticking to it."

Piper rolled her eyes. "I know how good with potions you are, Christopher," she said. "You haven't 'accidently' made something explode like that since you were eight."

"It was more difficult than any potion I'd tried before!"

"You blew up nine classrooms and the cafeteria! There's just _no way_–"

"Eight and a half! And nobody liked the cafeteria, anyway."

Piper and Chris glared at each other. Wyatt, who was sitting between them, leaned backwards as far as he could as if fearing crossfire.

After several seconds, Harry repeated tentatively, "Er, could we get back to the charge thing…?"

Piper blinked and returned her attention to him. "Oh," she said and gave a forced-sounding laugh. "Um, Wyatt's half whitelighter, but he's always been closer to it than his Wiccan side, so he wants to try being a whitelighter at Hogwarts. You're the prime candidate for his first charge. Is that okay with you? I promise he's very capable and mature for his age. Unlike Chris."

"Whitelighter?"

While Piper explained what a whitelighter was, Harry tried to concentrate but found it hard. Chris was staring at him. Intently. His expression looked like he was trying to work out a puzzle which he had mastered before but had somehow forgotten.

When Piper finished, Chris didn't give Harry a chance to react before interrupted,

"Have we met before? You look _really_ familiar."

Harry blinked and said, "Earlier, on the hill…."

Chris rolled his eyes. "No, no," he said. "Before that."

"I've been in the papers a lot."

"I don't keep up with Wizarding papers."

"Then I don't know," said Harry, feeling irritation beginning to spark in his abdomen. "You tell me."

"Well, obviously I don't know, or I wouldn't have asked."

Harry felt his eyes narrow involuntarily. "…I hope you get sorted into Slytherin."

"…Huh?"

"Nothing," said Harry. "Nothing whatsoever."

Chris eyed him. "We're going to clash, aren't we?"

"Like Weasleys and Malfoys."

"I would have said, 'Like Godzilla and Mothra,' personally."

"…Let's change it to Voldemort and Dumbledore."

"Toothpaste and orange juice."

"Oh," said Harry, wincing. "Done."

"Done." Chris smirked.

Ron grinned and said, "This is going to be a fun year."

"Definitely not quiet," muttered Wyatt, and Hermione sighed.

"It never is," she said.

Chris and Harry grinned.

"Good."

* * *

**End.**

**A/N: Hey, guys! Um... very late. I know. But here it is, and thanks for sticking with me to the very end. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. You guys have been such a great audience. =)**

**Thank you, Stoneage Woman for beta-ing. You're the best. =)**

**I don't know if I'll be on Fanfiction(.)net much longer. The world of original fiction has dragged me to her kicking and screaming, so most of my time is monopolized by that. But my time here has been fun, and, looking back at Fishy Chrissy and most of this, I can't believe how much I've grown as a writer. And the reviews supporting me along the way were absolutely invaluable. Thank you, guys. Really. You've made it an experience I'll never regret.**

**So, thanks again, and see you around!**

**PS, For those of you reading Tangled Webs, I'm sorry, but I don't know if I'll be able to finish it. I'll try my best over the summer, but I can't make any promises.**


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